⚠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
deserve
the name I was given--

Jade,
after the (semi) precious gemstone.

Girls named Jade
are not supposed to
give strangers the finger
more often than
they hug their mothers
or
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
*******

t̶w̶i̶c̶e̶

thrice
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
always
too loud.)

about p u s s y.

They don't say
(or write)
the word
*******br>
either.

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.

Instead,
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
poetry.


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.

I don't understand
Why anyone would want to be pretty
When they could be unique
I know that I would rather be me
Than be pretty
Sorry to say that looks ain't all that
But trust me,
It's the character that matters
Not what the character's wearing
It is more beautiful
When the character does something
That is pretty
When they tell you
How amazing the character looks
And how everyone ought to be jealous
I'm sorry,
But I want to match my outside with my in
And if my inside has purple hair,
A lip ring
And stretched ear lobes
Then that's exactly what I want to look like
Because to me, that's an action
And you know that actions
Are really what makes a story
Real

So who here wants to be pretty?

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
         here,
a lavender wig there, a dress with the right touches of purple-
    maroon
         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.

red



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.



orange



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



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



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



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



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.

we did not Dye in vain!
by michael r. burch

(from “songs of the sea snails”)

though i’m just a slimy crawler,
     my lineage is proud:
my forebears gave their lives
     (oh, let the trumps blare loud!)
so purple-mantled Royals
     might stand out in a crowd.

i salute you, fellow loyals,
     who labor without scruple
as your incomes fall
     while deficits quadruple
to swaddle unjust Lords
     in bright imperial purple!

Originally published by The American Dissident

Notes: In ancient times the purple dye produced from the secretions of purpura mollusks (sea snails) was known as “Tyrian purple,” “royal purple” and “imperial purple.” It was greatly prized in antiquity, and was very expensive according to the historian Theopompus: “Purple for dyes fetched its weight in silver at Colophon.” Thus, purple-dyed fabrics became status symbols, and laws often prevented commoners from possessing them. The production of Tyrian purple was tightly controlled in Byzantium, where the imperial court restricted its use to the coloring of imperial silks. A child born to the reigning emperor was literally porphyrogenitos ("born to the purple") because the imperial birthing apartment was walled in porphyry, a purple-hued rock, and draped with purple silks. Royal babies were swaddled in purple; we know this because the iconodules, who disagreed with the emperor Constantine about the veneration of images, accused him of defecating on his imperial purple swaddling clothes!

Keywords/Tags: royal, purple, imperial, Tyrian, Byzantium, porphyry, swaddling, clothes, porphyrogenitos, mollusks, sea snails, royalty, kings, lords, emperors, popes

skin left sore and damage.
My purple flesh leaves marks that signify hate within others.
Pain left from fathers and mothers, sister and brothers, friends or foe.
I  believe the skeletons I hide, have more guts than I do.
Being pushed around and abused by those close to me without fighting back.
But I know I would rather take a thousand cuts before giving one.
I may seem so well put together from the outside, but I know on the inside I have been torn apart.

I wanna be more,
than just a child and explore
I wanna fight
This growing blight

Feelings are genuine
Stars and moon aren't perfectly align
So we drink this purple wine
For this purple war between this line

Let our emotions pour
Anger and fight we search for more
Hurtful words they follow
Feelings of tomorrow

Here we are still fighting
We have flaws, I know we're now admitting,
Stay, we have more stories to be written
We don't have to go we'll just be smitten.

This exchange of words we dealt
We'll probably felt it everyday
This emotions we feel won't decay
This fight of love will repay