Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Poetic T May 17
Death is beauty,
               as the rose atop of death
feeds on the nourishment of
                                   an empty shell.

Even though its petals decay,
                              its reaches higher

than the tomb
                      to bring life crimson to the surface.
Jace Joesph May 16
Still I think of an old habit, that I had once made to inhabit, it developed quick as a rabbit.
                              With how fast the crimson would flood, with mountain of tissues soaked in blood, as my body is tossed in the mud.
                                       In all honesty I still miss the rush, the gush,
                                                  That silent shush.
        But I'll keep my word,
Though i might be a flightless bird,
    I can still be beautiful even with the scars, is that so absurd?
Aneesh H Jan 31
The Sun rose in the East
Mother Earth demurely smiled
And a crimson spread across the East
And their love did a hundred flowers bloom
the bees buzzed, the wind swayed, the bird
A new song did sing
It is Spring!
Spring is a season of joy. The gloom of winter is cured by the friendly, lively warmth of Spring. Spring brings hope, cheer and new energy. It is the season of love. In India, it is also the season of harvest festival as well as Basant Panchami, the festival to worship Mother Saraswati, the Goddess of learning. Also, an Indian version of the valentines day: a festival of passion, anticipation and preparation for the upcoming season of bloom.

During harvest festival, worship of Mother Earth signifies the deification of the only planet we have, thereby spreading the message of sustainability and healthy living.
Crystal Freda Dec 2019
burgundy braids braced
the back of her brass bed.
Raving ruby ringlets
ravaged royalty on her head.

autumn's aquired art
ablazed ambers of auburn.
crimison curls caressed
as carmine chromes churn.

vivifying vistas vibrate
vibrance with verbalized twirls.
Remembering rumbles of rage
rouged in her rancid curls.
autumn was slow
and opportunities shook themeselves
over me
i was at a turning point whilst crimson
leaves fell underneath my feet
gathering dust onto my street

i was undoing
just like the citrus fruits that hang in my grandmothers garden, the light was changing and i felt
ripe again.
Viseract Nov 2019
Mirror mirror, on the wall
Tell me how the fallen, fall?

Well now, come now, let me show
All the pain I've ever known...

Mark my words, I marked my skin
Thin red lines of crimson sin

Seeping through their open wounds
The more I made, like blossom, blooms...

So I was hollow, devoid of all
I am how the fallen, fall

Mirror, mirror, just a mask
All they'll see is shattered glass...
Here's your proof, Kayla
lua Nov 2019
the road home wound and swirled like a coil
the music on the radio tuned out like white-noise
and the sun had set to a point where everything lit up in red
a crimson so deep
it stained the trees, the grass
the tall towering buildings, the calm suburban neighbourhoods
the cracked pavements, the dark alleyways
the glass shop windows, the exposed brick of an abandoned structure
the glossy sides of the cars that drove infront of us, the concrete we drove on
the faux leather seats, the metal of the adjustable headrest
the tips of my hair, the tips of my fingernails
my skin, and all of the things that sat with me in silence

i close my eyes

and i feel.
other title: crimson hour
Kay-Rosa Nov 2019
is emotion.
its just
a sputtering stream of how our mouths process it.
its little drips
of crimson blood,
drawing lines from our lips to our hearts.
its a projectile scream;
something we can stop or close our mouths to.
it affects other people,
splatters of my blood on her shirt
my scream shattering her eardrums
now she has crimson to spill
and it trickles down her lips.
Red is the colour of blood and passion
Raw enchanting, ruthless, cuts and colours deep

Simple interests
Complex values, evaluation
Desired profits
Loss of interests
Principal principles lost

Many colours in life
Not all chosen by you
Some you dabble with
Give you permanent stains and crimson tears
Behind the crimson tears’ - by Avisek Prasad

The above piece is inspired by this book, the author is known to me :)
Next page