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The ensemble was quiet.
And strange voices talked.
While I stood by the pillar against the big wooden door,
Looking around to see if I could dance that night.

Lights hung low from the elegant ceiling
Of that hall,built with a distinct victorian taste.
A girl in pink, sitting by the staircase, rested her cheeks on her hands,
Looking around to see if she could dance that night.

Then the ensemble played.
Lights grew bright.
The hall turned into a boundless ballroom.
And music moved the numb hands and feet,
To chase each melodious note,
Down a surreal abbey,
To the realm of a passionate,ecstatic relief,
I had not witnessed before.

This cast a spell.
My eyes sparkled.
Her eyes sparkled.
We moved toward each other,
With an irresistible air of this divine passion guiding us through.
So we danced that night,
To the 'mellow' waltz.
And we danced thereafter,
To the 'mellow' waltz.
And we danced infinitely.
until I lost some weight
now people fear I’ll waste away
too quiet
‘til I speak my mind
now they’re all ******,
wish I would die
wear too much black
wear pink one day
now everyone assumes I’m ***
work out an hour,
now I’m crazy
I take a break
now i’m too lazy
the truths I tell
become a lie
all people do is criticize
too meek
too weak
an ***
too crass
It doesn’t change
until I die
nobody will be satisfied
can't please everybody... or, anybody, in my case. But f**k 'em
Spring is that
One week in April
Cherry blossoms fill the sky and ground
Bubbling pink petals as fast as they fall
Snowing Sakura petals

Reaching out
Catching them as they spiral through the air
Falling ever so softly

Pile heaps of pink
Roll around
Throw confetti

The pink turns brown
And we're still collecting heaps
Lining the side of the streets

Where we grew unexposed
To the hectic world outside
Lost in a pink Sakura bubble of our own
Don't feel like I've done a good job on this one but I thought the memory was sweet and wanted to write it out.
acacia 2d
write about the color of my cranberries when they are first ripe, then the juices that spill out like soft milk overflowing;

the way your blood race to your nose and the color of warmth that
fills my hands and spreads down to my toes when
i am sitting beside a fire and some lights, shielded from
the blue outside.

here i am, on the coral sand, greeted by the hushed-colored waters to watch as it just barely covers my feet. (it splashes little splashes of itself on me.)

the tongue that glides over lips with sheen is pink, the smell of the perfume is pink;

the smell of the fauna and flora, natural wildlife spurring around, the mist goes about 3,000 feet in my direction – i think it’d also go about 3,000 feet in yours, as well.

the insides of this dewy bud, juicy and softened, and not yet ripe; flooded with instincts (and insects)

and someone else’s pink.

the color is when i'm angry at you but instead i am angry at me;
and if i could i'd be reborn as a starfish or the tiniest caterpillar you've ever seen.
the color is when i'm angry at you but instead i am angry at me
You lingered, I think
When you were saying goodbye to me.

My grin grew wider for each hug and when you rested your head on my shoulder

My cheeks, they turned pink

When you walked away the world was again colder.
Haylin 5d
this morning
i am stuck

i am stuck

every morning
i face the same decision
and ask the question
how do i feel today?

and every morning
i struggle
not because i cant find the answer
but because im scared of it

because i know
that i cant be Purple
thats too confusing

but i feel Purple
My life in a nutshell
I often color the sky
based on the intensity of love.

It can go from exchanging compliments
of sapphire, vanilla, and blue

to different degrees of purple,
black, and velvet hue.

Sometimes the richest combination
of orange, yellow, explosions of honey.

Oftentimes all shades of gold, bronze
plus all the colors of downy.

A careless mix of
pink skies in perspectives of blue

All paint poured to the sky
if the intensity's for you.
La vie en rose
Like the hard junctions cracked
La vie en rose
Like the lines drawn, exact

La vie en rose
A color not enough
La vie en rose
A touch is far from tough

La vie en rose
A uninterpretable sound
La vie en rose
Some words both not and very profound

La vie en rose
A sleight of hand
La vie en rose
Is my demand
Margaret Dec 2
Late one night
walking home
I felt a long pink
finger nail
touch the
pad of my thumb finger
and it was my own
and somehow

I thought
to my grandma

how many bottles
of pink nail polish
collected in that
far from antique
white plastic container
and at visits
the rummaging
I would do
inspecting each color
and she taught me how
to paint each nail
one on the left,
one in the center,
one on the right,
for each nail

and when they
were drying she
would tell me
to blow
I would sit
so tall and proud
for not having smudged them

Such a childish thing
and yet how warmly
I remember this
when she died
I could have all of her
nail polishes
Wow, it has been a long time since I wrote for Hello Poetry. I started writing on this website as the only outlet for an awkward teenaged girl who was the only one in her classes enjoying poetry. Looking back, the content I was putting on the site wasn’t very good, but I loved the community here. So much has changed since then and I think as you get older you come to realize less is more when it comes to poetry. (With amount of words used at least). It will sometimes be months since I’ve written anything, but I wrote this one late a night or two ago, recalling this memory of my grandma. When she died, I lost a huge mother figure  in my life. My own mother was not the type to paint nails.
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