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The Scarlet Refusal


The box. The chains.  
The absolution.  
“It ends the pain,” they say.  

But what is there for me to gain?  
My shackles long slipped the rein.  
It’s your box, your chain, that detains.  

I abandoned that game.  

“It sticks,” they say.  
“It rebels,” they voice.  
A bright red ‘A’.  

But no heed I pay.  
I light my illuminate blaze.  
Not an arsonist—  
Just someone who is unlevered.
A poem about reclaiming autonomy after being branded, boxed, and burdened by someone else’s shame. It’s not about destruction—it’s about illumination. A refusal wrapped in scarlet, and a quiet blaze of becoming.
Dom 1d
Every wail of wind
Is a mournful dirge
Carrying off through the distance
Where tenebrous finger like branches sway,
And the moist air feels like a tearful eye.

The pale light won’t shine,
She hides her face in a cacophony of smoke and mirrors,
A majesty so shy she turns her back
As the wolves cry for her in loving sonnets.

Deeper is the black that darks the skies,
As veins of electric light quickly strobe the clouds,
There’s a crack of a cackling giant,
And the tears fall from angels,
As a strident breeze breathes across the landscape
As the trees mosh in syncopated patterns—
I calmly wait in the midst of storms.
Who doesn’t love a thunderstorm, even if it’s internally?
Destre' 1d
Come feel the waters swell
Lips find pulses
Wave crashes into wave

Breath hastens swirling winds
Wave crashes into wave;
crashes into wave

Eyes
   clouded skies
Fingertips
   raindrops hungry for dirt
Fell
    and found the sea
Wave crashes into wave
Deep
  Crash into me

Lightning radiates surrender
Chests drifting thunder
And the tide slinks back to the sea
as you pull yourself out of me
Primal desires.
"You're a work of art"
🚂

We board with desire.

We return with clarity.

And somewhere between the stations,

we learn

What was attainable.

And what was worth carrying.

🚊
This poem captures the quiet transformation that time brings. We begin our journey burdened with ambition, desire, and expectation—only to return tempered by experience, having shed what we once thought essential. It’s a meditation on simplicity, loss, and wisdom.
Flowers are different. Just like us.
They all have different shapes, but that's what makes them special.
They shine so brightly, in different colors.
They have uniquely shaped petals.
They possess captivating qualities.
And each have their own story, all just like us.

Our stories begin and end the same,
Yet we're all so different from each other.
Every person you see, a friend, colleague, even a stranger.
They all have their stories.

Some flowers live in remotely good environment, others had to fight to survive.
There's also flowers which are well liked for their appearances,
while others get overlooked because they're "unattractive."

Dandelions go far and wide,
Meanwhile mimosa's stay in the same place, although they have potential.
Sunflowers take the easy road, they rely on birds to spread their seeds.
Lotus flowers stay to what they know best.
All just like us.

Sakura blooms are fragile, they die easily,
Cacti have learnt to live independently, without anyone else,
Both die without proper care in the end,
One is just quicker than the other.

We all grow, we all wither, yet our stories live on,
Just like the flowers, always finding a way to bloom again,
Whether quick to bloom or slow to grow,
We all find our place under the same sky,
Reaching for the light.
"Hi Deona. Wow - I really enjoyed reading your poem. You’ve crafted such a thoughtful and heartfelt piece that beautifully explores the theme of diversity and human experience through the metaphor of flowers. It’s clear you’ve put genuine emotion and reflection into every stanza. It is a sincere piece with a strong voice. Keep writing and don’t be afraid to experiment even more with rhythm, line breaks, and poetic devices. I’m really proud of you." My heart broke.
Reece 3d
Inside the insane asylum,
That I go to five days a week.
Straightjacket tight,
I can barely breathe.
Listening to all the inmates,
Contemplating all their mistakes,
I can’t even sleep.
They continuously repeat,
The same lines over and over again.
When is my reprieve?
Better be soon, before my mind turns to a ruin.
“Blah, blah, blah.”
That’s all I hear.
Their voices, drowning out,
Every other peaceful sound.
“Blah, blah, blah, blah.”
I feel the blood flow from my ears,
As I look to the ground,
And fade into the background.
Can’t believe I still have a couple years.
When I break free, will my fears control me?
Sometimes it feels like I’m surrounded by,
Sheep that would just follow the crowd,
Till they died.
Am I going crazy…?
Or is it just all hyperbole…?
Thank goodness I'm free, till August that is.
It begins with a whisper,
not of air,
but of policy,
spinning.

The wall is old.
Painted over promises,
layered thick with
“later,”
“not yet,”
“it’s complicated.”

The drill hums, a mandate,
a motion passed in tired rooms,
a push into what resists
and always has.

Plaster flakes like paper ballots.
Behind it:
wires crossed,
beams bowed from holding too much weight
for too long.

This isn’t demolition.
It’s inquiry.
An attempt to find
what’s been hidden in drywall sermons
and insulation thick with slogans.

The silence after isn’t peace,
it’s waiting.
A breath before someone asks:
Who gave permission to open this up?

And someone else answers:
No one.
We just did.
We could drill forward, but where's the battery?
minisha 4d
The embrace of spring kisses good bye to the crystals of winters,
and flowers bloom among mosses within crumbling walls,
yet rather that dancing among the roses,
I press myself against the thorns,
since the crimson string ties the last knot
with the bullets cherished by the winters.
based on a personal experience, haha
It will never return
Every single day a wish sets sail
But nothing ever floats back
The constant churn of the tide
Is a clockwork peril
A nomadic timekeeper
Telling us over and over
And over again
The time has come
To look elsewhere
Inspired by Barbara R Maxwell's poem "The Ocean":
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5062223/the-ocean/
Dylan A May 12
I shouldn’t have opened the box,

because Hope was forced to hope for all evil.


I shouldn’t have checked to see if the cat was dead or alive;

it wasn’t—the hammer didn’t hit—but it starved to death.


I shouldn’t have replaced all my ship’s parts,

now I have two, but the original is still broken.
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