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Diksha Prashar Jul 2021
My thoughts are mine
But, somehow I fear them
they speak volumes
I often feel deaf
they shook me bad
i try to hide
from the chase they love
though, I cry
when they fell numb
I find myself sigh
'was it worthwhile?'
to let them define
my worth like that
I tend to overthink
just like they desire
fear consumes me
chaining me in its clutches
on my knees
bleeding crimson
a sad reality
I accept
guilty I proceed
vulnerable picture of me.
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Chris Thomas Jul 2021
It often feels as though I was never meant
To be the man that I have stubbornly become;

It often seems more likely that at one time,
During my checkered past,
I laid in wait in the foliage,
Sprung a makeshift trap,
Subdued one of my pursuers,

And assumed their identity

It would be one of the few logical explanations
For why I consistently sabotage my own path;

Retreating to my sanctuary,
Setting up tripwires around every corner,
Poisoning my sole water source,
Setting up sensors around my heart,
Camouflaging the exposed crimson,

And stalling for time that I no longer own
Why do I still daydream about the ending
When the beginning is far from written?
FunSlower Jun 2021
There you go again.
That crimson lipstick
Pressed against the wrong lips.

So will you stay there through the night-time
Or are you gonna have a dance with me?
You know I would hold you for a lifetime.
So do you wanna take a chance with me?

There she goes again.
That crimson mystic
Impressed me and she won’t quit.

So, will you stay there through the night-time?
Or are you gonna have a dance with me?
You’d be my Queen.
You know I would hold you for a lifetime.
So do you wanna take a chance with me?
Surely you’ve seen

The eyes that passed by
Have never told lies.
And lives that pass by
Have severed old ties.
So as I sit here and write my story
Into yours in all your glory,
Will you read it? Do you need it like I need it?
Do you see it how I see it?

So I’ll just sit here and write.
Dearest Crimson Red.
Deepest Ocean Blue.
Can you tell how much you mean to me?
Can I say how much I like you?
Melody Mann Jun 2021
In the ruins of memories shall I scavenge for relics,
I seek totems of our union and idols of our departure,
For in the battlefield we shared I sit to relish the agony of separation we now bare,
To the crimson kisses staining our surrender,
A salute to fractured promises.
aspen wilde Apr 2021
i believe breathing in an air of love
would be the same as gasping in the
beckoning sweetness of a crimson rose on a
fresh summers day
The Triple L Apr 2021
The touch of a hand,
The warmth of another,
That precious tickle,
That burning feeling inside,

Living flame,
Dancing throughout my garden.

The garden I cultivate for you,
A field of crimson, the purest red,
It is your colour, a sanctity, a shrine for you,
This garden, my life’s passion,

A never ending field of Lycoris Radiata,
Growing inside my mind.

Temples and palaces,
Cathedrals and castles,
The works of generations,
They’re all incomparable to the garden I grow for you,

Thousands of year in worth of work, the species’ finest art,
Rivalled by the Eden I cultivate for you, the moments it took for my garden to grow.

Problems are non existent in the garden,
Yours or mine, I can no longer tell,
But I know for a fact that they cannot grow here,
All that grows is the Lycoris Radiata, swallowing all other forms of life or death,

That is, before the deluge,
Before the moment you walked into my garden.

Before the moment you entered the realm I constructed for you,
Before the moment you graced the garden with your presence,
Before the moment you shattered the illusion of grandeur,
Before the moment you trampled the finest of the Lycoris Radiata,

The death of my garden,
The collapse of my life’s work, that somehow lasted mere moments.

But it’s okay,
I didn’t want the field of crimson anyway,
I didn’t want the garden of Eden,
You snake.

I hope you know I hate you,
Because now I’m growing hydrangea,
And it’s going to be the most beautiful garden on earth, lush and green and all for me.

A poem about me feelings for someone. The inspiration comes from a picture of spider lilies.
Hamna Apr 2021
There is a woman,
With heaven underneath her feet.
When I take a glimpse of her eyes,
I forget about the stars.
For the twinkle of her eyes is better than that of stars.
When I gaze at her lips,
I forget about the crimson of roses.
For her lips are far rosier.
When I hear her laugh,
I forget about the nightingale.
For her voice is far too merry.
But do you know who this woman is?
She is Mama the Marvellous.
At night, against the pulsing embryonic black which could
Squeeze any number of untold horrors from it’s voided heft,
There sits a door; bright searchlights unmoving, having forever
Ago found and revealed the menacing target of their feverish hunt.
The lights, beacons of vision and revelation stay still,
Afraid to ever lift their gaze from the door.

The door; a crimson sentinel of conformity’s’ demands. A gate
To a finite space of infinite secluded terrors. It’s mocking facade,
Not the true foundation of the haunting visage, but it’s chosen
Illumination against the choking nothingness around it.
There is nothing else but it, and if the lights lose
Their oppressive gleaming, there will be nothing.

Would it not be better for the deep to win the ever waging war
Against our struggles to find hints of sight and recognition?
If the door were to vanish from the othering out there,
then it would be impossible to not turn inward. A forced reflection,
a mirror that’s presence is known, existence felt, but is unseen,
only available when the absence is absolute.

Nonplussed, the bastion remains, a gravity well pulsing
In and out the night, as if the darkness centered around
Maintaining the illusion of safety from knowing ourselves.
Do not be afraid, you will not be forsaken or alone with anything
Other than the beating of your quickened pulse, the edges
Of your vision shrinking until all that you are

Is mirrored in that crimson sentinel.
Sometimes even the simplest things can sometimes a sense of uneasy dread
Jade Mar 2021
Trial i: Crimson

By: The Mad Poetess


I shall birth
a new colour.

Sprung from the womb
of passion & rage--


The name of the labour:
The Crimsoning

after the spawn:



from the quill
baptized in crimson ink

to the torn parchment

poetry shall hail down

like a meteor shower.


- Sewing needle
- Blood
- Berries harvested from the Belladonna plant (devil's cherry)
- Teardrops
- Artist's palette
- Inkwell
- Bunsen burner
- Quill pen
- Parchment


1. With the needle, ***** finger; remove needle at the first dewdrop of blood
2.  Crush and mix devil's cherries with teardrops upon artist's palette
3. Add dewdrop and rest of concoction on to palette and mix using whatever is convenient (fingers, paint brush, hair, etc)
4. Transfer Crimson to inkwell
5. Place in well above bunsen burner
6. Burn for 40 days and 40 nights until Crimson is matured
7. Dip quill into ink
5. Press quill to parchment
6. Write poetry


The parchment kindles
beneath the ink

pages curl up
at the corners
like Medusa’s hissing serpents

every gawking
a petrification of
what could have been

every lowercase t

every serif
a burning branch.

Is this the context
of a self-fulfilling prophecy?

To write poems about forest fires
and then



My poems and I:

on the cusp of extinction.

I throw my head back
at a ghastly angle

like the ancient
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Svetoslav Mar 2021
crimson sky shivers
sounds of spring water heating
fuming snowy breath 🌷
from the haiku chain Of Changing Seasons
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