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Lee May 22
purple --
the conflicted color

angry fire

of red

and the
cool calm

of blue
Fiona May 20
It was a quiet place
Inside of that red room
Until the wind from inside shook the walls
Collapsing them outward
As the walls fell around her
The wildflowers appeared.
Growing rapidly
The red walls were replaced by
Blue Purple Yellow faces with Green stems.
She climbed those green stems,
For a long time.
So long she reached the top,
Where the Blue Purple Yellow faces stared into the sun.
She lay a top those wildflowers.
Closing her eyes,
Suddenly surrounded by red.
Inspired by Wild Flower, Fiona re-imagines the poem, 2 of 2.
Words' Worth May 6
What do I do these days?
As I sway in a romantic way
I hear the yellow flower turn
I listen to the woods of the swamps slightly forlorn
The staircase points downward, I am lost
When the cars wheel by the pondering eyed strangers
The shores of oceans don't have legs
A soul hollow as the kind blue flower and fruit
Blossoms in the summer-youth which rots the skin to the shin, losing it's rind

It's a surprise to see
In your ashen coil under a sycamore tree
Where you have lost your lonely virility
Where is your heart these days, my child?
Lost in the vigil of the votive offerings of sunflowers
Till the next time
We will see as the tepid wind swells and boils
The effervescent water coolly blows into my eyes
As I sway in the straits of hasty affairs filmed and tinted in romantic lies, my faithful violet
I miss the faith of some of my readers. They loved me with a wholesome love. It was faithful and torrid at times. But, never uncouth and indecent. I regret dating someone on this platform.
Tiana Apr 30
When it rains look for rainbows
When its dark look for stars
Some people are just pure magic
You were the one that made me realize you aren't
Some people leave footsteps in your heart
You left me breathless
I found what I loved
Letting you in
Am I stuck in the past
In love with what could've been
But still all you left me with was a broken girl
And Bruises
Like lilacs beneath my skin
Reappak Apr 24
The purple sky above my head
and lavenders beneath my feet
Purple, a color of lovely sunsets,
above the lilac fields,
purple is the last one,
in a rainbow
Purple, was that only flower,
in the fields of yellow!
On the green lush trees
the purple berries hang!
Blows, the cool breeze
through the purple lands,
I watch how the sun dives
leaving the stars behind,
the stars which ring the bells
and the ivories, lilacs and lavenders
Sell their purple colors
making the lovely purple sunsets
Oh man! I'm obsessed
Who else loves purple??💜💜💜
Jade Apr 22
⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to graphic language, substance abuse, suicidal ideation and opinions on religion that some might find offensive⚠


I do not
the name I was given--

after the (semi) precious gemstone.

Girls named Jade
are not supposed to
give strangers the finger
more often than
they hug their mothers
say the word
f  u  c  k
more often than
they tell their fathers
that they love them--

are not supposed
to say
(or write)
the word

at all.

And here I am,
having banged out
the word


upon my typewriter.

Real charmer,
aren't I?

******* in front
of open windows
just for the ******* i n g sake of it.

(four times.)

Pounding tequila shots
as I grind against the moonlight,
Lana Del Rey's lyrics
throbbing from the speakers:

"My *******tastes like Pepsi Cola..."

Girls named Jade
are not supposed to
get plastered on school nights
(and tipsy before class)
or listen to music

(and the music is
too loud.)

about p u s s y.

They don't say
(or write)
the word

I've always had a ***** mouth--
this is what a man from church
had told me at eight years old
when I said "****" in front of him.

Girls named Jade
are supposed to go
to church every Sunday--
are supposed to believe in god.

I outgrow religion
by the time I am sixteen
(perhaps even before then),

only ever consulting the bible
when I need inspiration
for some tragic poem
narrating the pangs of betrayal.

(It was not Womankind
who betrayed god,
but god who betrayed Womankind

just like I have betrayed
my own name.)

The only thing
I have ever truly believed in is

Girls named Jade
are not supposed to
write poetry the way
I write poetry--

all *** & drugs & rock n' roll
tundras & hurricanes
infernos & molten lava
blood & violent minds
suicide & broken hearts

& broken hearts
& broken hearts
& broken hearts

& purple souls--

Girls named Jade
are supposed to
wear their souls
in the colour green.
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I like purple. It’s as simple
    as that. Well, maybe not that simple.
         I’ve in love with purple. We are unified
through time and space
    forever until I die. Purple, being immortal,
        would mourn my death and find
one of its many followers to connect with.
    But for me, there will always be purple. If I had a choice
        in any expression of character design that had
my own personal preference of color, purple
    would be there somewhere. I would dye my
        hair purple if I could, but my mother
told me never to come home
    as long as my hair is dyed.
        I love her and believe her, so I
don’t dye my hair. I have a
    purple dress or two that I dress up in to express
         my beauty. I know
it sounds terrible thinking
    about it, I have to dress up to express
         beauty to others. However, the fact that
I’m complemented means something to me. The way
    I do my makeup and carry myself
         and choose to dress, it has an effect
on those that lays eyes upon me. I beam with pride,
    showing all my expressions of purple.  A homemade purple bow
a lavender wig there, a dress with the right touches of purple-
         and a beaming mahogany woman, brimming with specialness. I am a purple girl,
    not the only one, but the most reflexive I can be.
         If I could color my soul, it would be purple sometimes.
Not every time, but a lot of the times.  Any kind of purple
     would do. The light purples
          like lilac and light lavender are sweet and fluffy.
They remind me of happy seventy-five degree weather
      days with a comforting breeze, and no pollen
          since I’m allergic and pollen is pretty much one of
those things I’d encounter in hell. Darker purples,
      like plum and grape, give a more mature
           vibe of elegance and sophistication. It reminds me
of a dark night, a woman in high heels and
      a dress with a slit so high that
           it makes men lose their religions and minds
for a taste of her tantalizing forbidden fruit,
       with a flawless expression of her body that gives
            those men wet dreams and fantasies. In my heart,
there is a purple stream that flows from the heart that starts to
        circle around my body and continues to float into the
             ground until it touches the core of the planet
and up in the air into space and beyond infinity.
        It always seems to be there, that purple
             stream of magic and imagination. I dance a purple dance,
leaving traces of purple steps in my wake.
        So I come back to the beginning. “I like purple.”
              With those words, I haven’t done my expression justice.
It’s true, but it is an understatement.
This is one of my UA poems. Written before 12-7-2012
No one Apr 11

The first color in art.

The beginning of a rainbow;

the color pushed out of your heart.

The color of a husky voice and bare legs.

It fills the mind, washing away doubts

and slowly drips onto innocence like tears on the floor.

It is sweat off an old man's brow; it is calloused hands.

It is the taste of your addicting lips.

It is Maria Brink's voice; it is the way 'fruchtfleisch' sounds.
Red is bold, but soft. It speeds up heartbeats.

Red is the beginning of us.

But red is also seeping out a hollow chest.


A difficult color to understand.

One that means organized in the most chaotic manner.

It is dogs barking and it is the sharp and rocky sand.

Orange is your fingers after staying in the water too long.

Orange is the feeling of relief when you've finished all your work.

It is the drunk man's slurred words,

and it is the toxic smell that exudes out of him.

It is a fresh washed blanket, or a pillow without a cover.

Orange is Gymnopédies, No. 1, Lent et douloureux

or Études, Op. 10: No. 12 in C Minor.
It is a storm washing away the chalk on your driveway.

Orange is watered-down coffee on a Saturday afternoon.

Orange is the start to something more.


Yellow is a tentative smile and long hair.

It is the sky at 3 in the morning.

It is a hot day in summer, biting into a pear.

Yellow is a young girl wishing on a shooting star.

It is a soft voice, but meaningful words.

Yellow are too-big shoes; it is stepping into a puddle of mud.

Yellow is not knowing where the other sock to the pair is.

Painting thick paint over a canvas,

and listening to the song Paris by 1975.

Yellow is a run-down house by the edge of a forest.

Yellow is alluring, yet revolting. 

Yellow is banana splits and ripe strawberries.


Green is communication, or the middle grounds.

It is a peaceful lake near a volcano.

Green is being alive, and is the way fire sounds.

Green is the smell of an old book; it is a book that takes too long to read.

It is the smell of nail polish remover.

Green is red solo cups and red stains over furniture.

It is the warm air before a storm.

Green is singing the note C while someone is singing G.

It is the tingle you feel after putting on mint chapstick.

It is feeling like your melting into someone's arms.

Green brings life, but it is the most deadly thing out there.


Blue is the match burning out too sickly and burning you.

Blue is a cigarette and the ashes of an unsent love letter.

It is your side of the bed being cold; it is having the flu.

Blue are arms pulling me in deeper.

Blue is the smell of candles; it is watering your houseplants.

It is a soft cat's tail rubbing against your face.

It is the giggles and the claws dug into your skin after it gets scared.

Blue is Empty Bed by Cavetown playing on repeat. 

It is running your hand down hair and connecting the constellations on your back.

Blue is two girls sleeping over, but instead of sleeping they're whispering.

Blue is driving your car too fast; you feel free.

Blue is accepting it's okay to be alone. Blue is ****** knuckles.


Purple is home.

Purple is the sound of a crowded street

Or the feeling of the ocean on your feet; the foam.

Purple is the sound your pencil makes on paper

It is the feeling of taking the first bite of a warm cookie.

Purple is the smell of roses; you are purple.

My purple is Hey Jude by the Beatles.

Purple is looking in a mirror; it is open drawers.

Purple is your feet brushing up against mine under the table.

It is your favorite song playing until you can't stand it.

Purple is the last color in a rainbow.

But purple is anything but the end.

Purple is the start to a brand new beginning.
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