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Rangzeb Hussain May 2010
White is the colour of my true love’s cherry cheeks,

White is the colour of my true love’s tantalizing teeth,

White is the colour of my true love’s foxy fingertips,

White is the colour of my true’s truly delicious dish,

White is the colour of my true love’s social scarf,

White is the colour of my true love's lyrical laugh,

White is the colour of my true love’s bilingual breath,

White is the colour of my true love’s playful pledge,

White is the colour of my true love’s flowery fragrance,

White is the colour of my true love’s decorated decadence,

White is the colour of my true love's delirious delight,

White is the colour of my true love’s sugared spice,

White is the colour of my true love’s secret shirt,

White is the colour of my true love’s purple pearls,

White is the colour of my true love’s shapely shoes,

White is the colour of my true love’s brooding Blues,

White is the colour of my true love’s wonderful words,

White is the colour of my true love’s dashing door,

White is the colour of my true love’s brilliant bedsheets,

White is the colour of my true love’s toxic treats,

White is the colour of my true love’s distant dreams,

White is the colour of my true love’s ring that glow gleams,

White is the colour of my true love’s guilty guile,

White is the colour of my bitter bile

For...

Black is the colour of my true love’s hardened heart.



©Rangzeb Hussain
skylitup Jun 2012
This is the colour of my anger:
A white hot searing fever
Tearing through my veins like amphetamine;
A surreal dream that keeps replaying in my brain
Over and over again...
Life is pain enough
Without other people
Making it tough. Guess I ran out of luck:
Top of the class and surrounded by  dumb *****
Whose only qualification is knowing how to trigger
The ticking bomb I've strapped on
In my anger.

This is the colour
This is the colour
This is the ******* colour

This is the colour of my anger:
This weird red mist with its fingers
Coiled around my brain,
Blurring my vision as I allow it
To make my decisions
For me. Again, it hands me the gun, then runs,
Leaving me to get the
Damage done. Well, aint this fun?
Three, two, one, and it’s time to take cover
I won’t get any sleep
Until I’ve shown you the colour
Of my anger.

This is the colour
This is the colour
This is the ******* colour

This is the colour of my anger:
A smouldering orange lava
That laughs at the wrath of the sun,
And I feel like the risen Son
As it pours out of me, heavenly,
Reducing everything in its path to the
Sum of zero
But this is just a fraction of what it’s capable of.
Hot and full of hell is my fury. ****'s getting gory.
It's time to remove the canker.
No more bluffing, I’m all in -
Let the games begin
With my anger.

This is the colour
This is the colour
This is the ******* colour

This is the colour of my anger:
The cloudless blue of my eyes
As I admire my workmanship,
Reflecting upon the new *******
That I have just ripped for you.
My smile spreads from ear to ear, like a slit throat,
Beatific in my ecstasy as this anger drains out of me.
The adrenaline that pumped so furiously
Now dumps its load in me, bringing me to my knees.
Enough, I say, as I see how small you stand there;
Let's call it a day, now be on your way,
Just remember the colour of my anger.

Don’t ever
****
With me
Again
a dedication...
Ozioma Ogbaji Apr 2015
Like the heavens and the skies
Like the deep seas so wide
When I am confident and true
When I have faith in you
Colour me blue, colour me blue

Like the royals of Great Britain
Like the noble in truth and ambition
In my wisdom, dignity and pride
In my mystery and grandeur so wise
Colour me purple, colour me purple

Like fire and blood
Like the intensity of a flood
In my strength and passion
In my desire, love and emotion
Colour me red, colour me red

Like the warmth of the tropics
Like the sun, my daily tonic
When I am determined and creative
When I am happy and attractive
Colour me orange, colour me orange

Like a smile so warm
Like joy even in a storm
When I am cheerful and happy
In my intellect, when I am savvy
Colour me yellow, colour me yellow

When I am all these and more
When I am despised or adored
With the colours of the rainbow
With the colours that make me glow
Colour me colours, colour me colours
heather Jun 2016
I'm six years old. I'm six years old and my favourite colour is green because it's the colour of my eyes and I think my eyes are the prettiest things I have ever seen.

I'm eight years old. I'm eight years old and I had a nightmare so bad I felt like my eyes were deceiving me. My favourite colour is now the same pale blue as my Mum's floral bedsheets because they make me feel safe.

I'm ten years old now. I'm ten years old and I'm a big girl because I'm allowed to walk to school with my friend instead of my Mum. We walk past fields of buttercups and other pretty flowers but my new favourite colour is the peach of the rose in my front garden.

I'm twelve years old. I'm twelve years old and I can't stand the colour green anymore because the meaner people in my school decided my self worth was less important than their jokes. I don't have a favourite colour anymore, but if you ask I'll say it's purple.

I'm fourteen years old. I'm fourteen which means I've been a teenager for a year and I still can't stand the colour green. My Mum let me dye my hair for the first time and now it is red and red is my favourite colour, but if you asked I would still tell you it's purple.

I'm sixteen now. I'm sixteen and I think I know everything, I met a boy that I like for the first time, my Mum doesn't know, but I think he makes the colour green a bit easier to look at because he told me he loves my eyes and that they are the most beautiful things he has ever seen. He gave me a pair of rose tinted glasses and I'm not quite sure why, but for now my favourite colour is the deep brown of his eyes but if anyone asks, my favourite colour is still purple.

I'm eighteen now. I'm eighteen and I can finally drink without it being illegal, and I have started drinking to forget everything except the colour of my Mum's pale blue floral bedsheets, the peach of the rose in my front garden, the bright red of my hair and the green of my eyes but most of all I'm drinking to forget the purple of the bruises that litter my skin, the purple that I always insisted was my favourite colour for reasons unknown to me.

I should be twenty years old now, and my favourite colour should be the orange of the sunset, the pink of the sunrise or maybe even the yellow of the buttercups in the fields I used to walk past on my way to school, but I did not make it to twenty years old. My favourite colour was never purple and I never asked for my skin to be constantly tainted that way, but you made sure I never healed and now my Mum is laying purple flowers on my grave and she's wishing she fought more to get my favourite colour to be green again like when I was six years old and in love with myself and the world around me, because if I still loved the innocent green then maybe I wouldn't be suffering my greatest nightmare as a child with the only comfort being tucked up in the seemingly endless sea of brown. I always tricked myself and everyone else into thinking things were perfect with rose tinted glasses but the lenses shattered and the last flower you laid on my grave was the peach coloured rose from my front garden, and now the petals have wilted and all of the colour has been drained from me but this new world has more hues than I could have ever dreamed of.
this is the longest poem I have written and also the first with these themes and I am very scared please be kind to me
It's the colour of little flowers in a field

It's the colour of the old easter dress in the back of my closet

It's the colour of princess sneakers most four year old girls stomp to get the little lights to flash

It's the colour of innocent dreams kept by six year olds

It's the colour of the marker I wrote this with

It's the colour that I used to say was my favorite, but can't anymore

It's the colour of my two favorite nail polishes that I always ruin as I paint it

It's the colour that I put on my cheeks to show more happiness because I can't show enough

It's the colour I feel when I twirl in a dress and the
skirts fly up around my knees

It's the colour I wish I could be, young, innocent, stupid, carefree, laughing with friends on the play ground on a spring day, getting small flowers from the boy in my first grade class, who says he likes when I wear my princess light up shoes

It's a colour I want to call "ME"

It's the colour that surrounds my mind when all I can think about is something that I thought was cute

It's the colour behind my eyes when stories that I want to write keep my mind from shutting down and sleeping

It's not the colour that graces my lips during the day, but in the morning when the day is fresh and I have yet to see the world

It's not the colour I wish to be, it's the colour i'm going to strive to be

Pink cheeks, Pink light up shoes, Pink skirts, Pink drawings on the walls, Pink flowers in a field of green, Pink dreams, Pink nails I always ruin, Pink markers and crayons, Pink hair I had before everything went down hill

Pink was the colour of my innocence and i'm going to get it back
Lincoln H Oct 2013
red is the colour of blood that courses through your veins, pumping that blood chugging ***** in your chest known as the heart. red is the colour of your skin when you blush, like that night when i mentioned how beautiful you were in the pale moonlight. red is the colour of that dress you wore to dinner, the silk draped from your body in the most modest way, yet you looked like a queen. red is the colour of the jewels i bought you after we went window shopping; i've never seen such a pleased look on anyone. red is the colour of your lips, and when you licked them, they looked as appetising  as a cherry lollipop. red is the colour your face got when you got those candies from the boy you liked; the boy that wasn't me. red is the colour my hands got after punching the wall a plethora of times in anger. red is the colour of love. red is the colour of jealousy. red is the colour of anger. red is the colour that wasn't in your face when i last saw you, arms crossed on a bed. red is the colour that spilt from my open wounds after i received the news. red is the colour i last saw before i saw black.
japheth Sep 2018
i loved to paint using your colour.

i’d go day and night, from one canvas to another, using different shades of you to paint all kinds of pictures.

i never lost any ideas.
i never had to find inspiration.
it all just comes to me whenever i look at you.

one day, i woke up colour blind. and unfortunately, it’s in your colour.

all the paintings, all the sketches, all the canvasses that were of your colour, plastered, hanged, and taped all over my walls doesn’t make sense anymore.

it was all grey. all dull. a colour i know existed but never really tried using before.

i tried searching for your colours in the things you’ve touched. the words you’ve said. i searched everywhere but whenever i do think your colour will come back, my eyes revert to reality.

now you’re just a memory.

your colour will only exist inside my mind.

those shades i loved. the pigments i crave to achieve every time i stroke my brush. it’s all in my head now.

it’s been years now. you’re colour isn’t as bright as i thought my memory would remind me of.

i paint with a different colour now.

actually, i paint with all the colours now except yours.

all those nights i spent painting, it’s with every colour i come across but yours.

now my wall’s full of colour again. all from different parts of me. colours i never knew existed.

now,

i’m happy. i’m content.

i’m colourful.
Hope Irons Jun 2014
The colour of the clear sky,
the colour of my dreams.
The colour of the sea that goes on
as far as the eye can see.
The colour of the horizons you chase,
the colour of hope painted on your face.
The colour of your eyes,
like deep mountain pools.
The colour of the voice
of the playing ghouls.
The colour of innocence disarming.
The colour of your thoughts so charming.
The colour of rain
on a hot summer day.
The colour you feel
when the spring leaves sway.
The colour of peace, a colour so true,
it fills me every time I look at you.
in a dark of frenzy it boils up inside
until summarily and inexplicably
see the colour between brown and blue
more than see it, immerse myself in it
swimming slowly in its clouds
see the colour between brown and blue
everywhere votive candles light
the colour between brown and blue
with slender tapers that touch a life
any life, your life
casting strange shadows, loose shadows
between the colour of brown and blue
children swarm, children with bright white
starvation hair, children with hands
like small worn mittens
who raise red swarms in hot worn out
death laden dust
dust that cauterizes the nostrils
with the stench of penurious insanity
the colour between brown and blue
that inveigles a purchase of flies
bottle blue, black blue, green blue,
swarming blue, swirling whirling blue
a black and blue confetti of flies
then the sudden zero of the
colour between brown and blue
hair raising, command faith
willed, willing, mumbling, murmuring
the excitement of writing between
the colour of brown and blue
trees shake and tremble
words regurgitate themselves like hot
food, the bark, write
now fully electrically charged
seized by the colour between brown and blue
forget everything else, write, write more, more, write
trembling with sudden shudders of merciless
vowels, madness penurious pencil
moves across, demanding paper
pushing worn words, worthy words whittled by use
words not yet written, words of wonder
oh what words
beautiful, baffling,baleful, words
with beastly beatitudes, words that conjure the mind
words between brown and blue
that leave you skinny like a stray dog
words so demanding leave you shut up in an
airless abattoir of high energy and low residue
the colour between brown and blue
where everywhere is everywhere else
touched by the flames of the colour between brown and blue
Nicole May 1
Blue and green we're the colors in between
All the things I've said, are all the things you've seen
White and grey we can still a stormy day
And all the things we fear we can't find the time to say.

Colour me terrified, colour me proud
Colour me anxious to say it out loud,
Colour me gratified, colour me fine
Colour me happy as long as you're mine.

Sand and slate oh you were worth the wait
All the lies I've lived have led me to your face.
Sea and sky, break all the rules or live a lie
Teach me all you know, my eyes are open wide.

Colour me terrified, colour me proud
Colour me anxious to say it out loud,
Colour me gratified, colour me fine
Colour me happy as long as you're mine.
Jackie Mead Mar 2018
Are you Green the colour of envy and greed
Are you Blue the colour of depression and mood
Are you Red the colour of anger and wrath
Are you Pink the colour of friendship and love
Are you Yellow the colour of sunshine and joy
Are you Purple the colour of bravery and valor
Are you Brown the colour of mud and earth
Are you Black the colour of night
Are you White the colour of light  

Which colour are you best described
Which colour best describes your life
Are are you a mix of all above, a life filled with passion, desire and love.
Answers on a postcard please ☺
Hope Irons Jun 2014
Red
The colour of roses,
the colour of blood.
The colour of passion
that comes like a flood.
The colour of my heart,
painted by you.
The colour you won’t notice on me,
no matter what I do.
The colour of her lips,
and the marks she leaves
on your skin.
The colour of the original sin.
The colour I feel,
so real it hurts.
The colour of my unspoken words.
The colour of her dress when she twirls,
the colour of your cheeks when you look at her.
The colour I hide when
it sweeps over me like the tide.
But it’s not the colour that tells me
I can’t be with you.
Delaney Mar 2018
Red
Red is the colour of blood
Red is the colour that
Wraps my arms around you
When I am in love
Red is the colour of fire,
Of the warmth that keeps me alive
Red Is the colour
That makes me angry
The colour of you screaming
Down at me and  
The tears
Falling
Red is the colour of my hard work
“Beet red face” they call me
A bull and the red flag not
A deer in the headlights
I can fight for my own.
Red is the colour that kills
Little boys and girls
A barrel to the head
Pull the trigger already
Red  is the colour of hurt
Watch the blood pour down
Red is the colour of
Slumping to the ground
Red is the colour of tears
Red is the colour of love never spent
Red is the colour of faces never smiled
Red is the colour of her heart
Not pumping anymore
Her breath
Not flowing through the canals of her
Red throat
Never tasting a berry again
Put a barrel to the head  
“It’s only red,” she whispers
“Colours
Are nothing
To be afraid of.”
derelictmemory Jul 2013
I love the colour
of everlasting sunsets
orange yellow purple blue

I love the colour
of laughter
so free and uplifting

I love the colour
of smiles
so bright, such shine

I love the colour
of flowers
so beautiful, so wonderful

I love the colour
of the ocean
so filled with mystery and danger

I love the colour
of clouds
sometimes so pure, other times so sad

I love the colour
of trees
Green, Autumn, Yellow, Warm

I love the colour
of hugs
so caring, so understanding

But most of all
My favourite colour ever
would be of love
so hopeful, so brilliant
the colour that surrounds me
every time I see you
4Anonymous7 Oct 2017
There are some things that can’t be described. Things too magnificent, too extraordinary to be summed up in a single word. My favourite colour is one of those things.

My favourite colour is a kindergartener’s painting of the sea, a quarter sun in the corner of the page, lowercase ‘m’s covering the skies, playing the role of seagulls. That’s my favourite colour.

My favourite colour is the sky in the few moments between night and day. Not the colours of the sunset, but the part that people always seem to forget to look at. It’s the area beside the mess of oranges and pinks, all bleeding together. The pure, solid colour that fills the small space just above them. The colour that only stays for a moment, but the colour that always returns. That’s my favourite colour.

It’s the robin's eggs you find in a storm drain as a child. The ones you don’t dare to touch, lest the babies’ mother smell your scent on them and never return.

It’s the mailbox from the saturday morning cartoons. The ones that always lure poor, unsuspecting mail men to the homes of very excited dogs.

It’s a forget me not. One of the hundreds darting the grounds at summer camp. It’s the one you pluck and tuck behind your friends ear with promises of forever.

My favourite colour is the past, the present, and the future. It’s the ground, the sky, and everything else inbetween.

Impossible to name, impossible to ever truly define and yet it's there. All of that wonder and amazement is right there, in one place.

His eyes. THAT'S my favourite colour.
I've joined "creative writing club" and we have to write about our fav colour without saying the name for the first meeting. I want to make a good first impression. Help.  (can you even tell what colour this is?)
Lincoln H Oct 2013
black is the colour of the sky when i wake up, with the broken pieces of heaven shining through. black is the colour of my coffee, as i trudge through the house trying not to spill it on the white carpet. black is how i like my room, where no light shines in anymore; the light reminds me of you. black is the colour of my bruises that line my body; i've gotten worse, i apologise. black is the colour of the ashes that fall from the **** i smoke. black is the colour of the television screen because i don't turn it on anymore. black is the colour of the streets i walk on at night, because in the day time people stare at the sad ones. black is the colour i feel, because deep down i'm awfully unhappy. black is the void i feel inside me, eating my from the inside out; tearing me to shreds. black is the colour of unhappiness. black is the colour of mourning. black is the colour of sadness. now i live in the dark, seeing the glass as half empty. everything to me is black. how could you ever like someone with a tar black soul?
When did the world get colour?
did it happen overnight?
In all the older photographs
The sky is black and white
The trees are grey, the leaves aren't green
All the cars are grey as well
when did the world get colour?
Is there someone who can tell?

black and white in photos
black and white in all we did
One kept to another
Even when one was a kid
Don't mix them, it's immoral
It's a secret we keep hid
When did the world get colour?
Did God just lift the lid?

It's funny how with colour
all the photos that we like
Are the ones that show we're happy
The one's in black and white
We were posing looking silly
But were content in who we were
When did the world get colour?
Can you answer me please, sir?

Colour brings together
Lots of things, it shows our heart
Black and White,it is divisive
It's always driving things apart
There is an issue with one's colour
A racist gene beneath the skin
why can't the world be full of colour?
The way it's always been

black and white in photos
black and white in all we did
One kept to another
Even when one was a kid
Don't mix them, it's immoral
It's a secret we keep hid
When did the world get colour?
Did God just lift the lid?
Inspired by a comment that my friend Emmanuel made concerning his younger sister and a photograph.
Nigel Morgan Dec 2012
As a child he remembered Cardiff as a city with red asphalt roads and yellow trolley busses. On a Saturday morning his grandfather used to take him in his black Sunbeam Talbot to the grand building of the Council of Music for Wales. There Charles Dixon presided over a large office on the third floor in which there were not one but two grand pianos. At seven a little boy finds one grand piano intimidating, two scary. He was made of fuss of by his grandfather’s colleagues and – as a Queen’s chorister – expected to sing. A very tall lady who smelt strongly of mothballs took him into what must have been a music library, and together they chose the 23rd Psalm to Brother James’ Air and Walford’s Solemn Melody. After his ‘performance’ he was given a book about Cardiff Castle, but spent an hour looking out of the windows onto the monkey-puzzle trees and watching people walking below.
 
50 years later as the taxi from the station took him to the rehearsal studios he thought of his mother shopping in this city as a young woman, probably a very slim, purposeful young woman with long auburn gold hair and a tennis player’s stride. He had just one photo of his mother as a young woman - in her nurse’s uniform, salvaged from his grandparents’ house in the Cardiff suburb of Rhiwbina. Curious how he remembered asking his grandmother about this photograph - who was this person with long hair?– he had never known his mother with anything but the shortest hair.
 
He’d visited the city regularly some ten years previously and he was glad he wasn’t driving. So much had changed, not least the area once known as Tiger Bay, a once notorious part of the city he was sure his mother had never visited. Now it was described as ‘a cultural hub’ where the grand Millennium Opera House stood, where the BBC made Doctor Who, where in the Weston Studio Theatre he’d hear for the first time his Unknown Colour.
 
Travelling down on the train he’d imagined arriving unannounced once the rehearsal had begun, the music covering his search for a strategic seat where he would sit in wonder.  It was not to be. As he opened the door to the theatre there was no music going on but a full-scale argument between the director, the conductor and three of the cast. The repetiteur was busy miming difficult passages. The two children sat demurely with respective mothers reading Harry Potters.
 
The next half hour was difficult as he realised that his carefully imagined stage directions were dead meat. They were going to do things differently and he had that sinking feeling that he was going to have to rewrite or at the very least reorganise a lot of music. He was then ‘noticed’ and introduced to the company – warm handshakes – and then plunged into a lengthy discussion about how the ensemble sequence towards the end of Act 1 could be managed. The mezzo playing Winifred was, he was forced to admit, as physically far from the photos of this artist in the 1930s as he could imagine. The tenor playing Ben was a little better, but taller than W – again a mismatch with reality. And the hair . . . well make up could do something with that he supposed. The baritone he thought was exactly right, non-descript enough to assume any one of the ten roles he had to play. He liked the actress playing Cissy the nurse from Cumbria. The soprano playing Kathleen and Barbara H was missing.
 
He was asked to set the scene, not ‘set the scene’ in a theatrical sense, but say a little about the background. Who were these people he and they were bringing to the stage? He told them he’d immersed himself in the period, visited the locations, spoken to people who had known them (all except Cissy and the many Parisienne artists who would ‘appear’). He saw the opera as a way of revealing how the intimacy and friendship of two artists had sustained each of them through a lifetime chasing the modernist ideal of abstraction. He was careful here not to say too much. He needed time with these singers on their own. He needed time with the director, who he knew was distracted by another production and had not, he reckoned, done his homework. He stressed this was a workshop session – he would rewrite as necessary. It was their production, but from the outset he felt they had to be in character and feel the location – the large ‘painters’ atelier at 48 Quai d’Auteuil.  He described the apartment by walking around the stage space. Here was Winifred’s studio area (and bedroom) divided by a white screen. Here was the living area, the common table, Winifred’s indoor garden of plants, and where Cissy and the children slept. As arranged (with some difficulty earlier in the week) he asked for the lights to be dimmed and showed slides of three paintings – Cissy and Kate, Flowers from Malmaison, and the wonderful Jake’s Bird and White Relief. He said nothing. He then asked for three more, this time abstracts –* Quarante-Huit Quai d’Auteuil, Blue Purpose, and ending with *Moons Turning.
 
He said nothing for at least a minute, but let Moons Turning hang in space in the dark. He wanted these experimental works in which colour begets form to have something of the impact he knew them to be capable of. They were interior, contemplative paintings. He was showing them four times their actual size, and they looked incredible and gloriously vibrant. These were the images Winifred had come to Paris to learn how to paint: to learn how to paint from the new masters of abstraction. She had then hidden them from public view for nearly 30 years. These were just some of the images that would surround the singers, would be in counterpoint with the music.
 
With the image of Moons Turning still on the screen he motioned to the repetiteur to play the opening music. It is night, and the studio is bathed in moonlight. It could be a scene from La Bohème, but the music is cool, meditative, moving slowly and deliberately through a maze of divergent harmonies towards a music of blueness.
 
He tells the cast that the music is anchored to Winifred’s colour chart, that during her long life she constantly and persistently researched colour. She sought the Unknown Colour. He suggests they might ‘get to know the musical colours’. He has written a book of short keyboard pieces that sound out her colour palette. There is a CD, but he’d prefer them to touch the music a little, these enigmatic chords that are, like paint, mixed in the course of the music to form new and different colours. He asks the mezzo to sing the opening soliloquy:
 
My inspiration comes in the form of colour,
of colour alone, no reference to the object or the object’s sense,
Colour needn’t be tagged to form to give it being.
Colour must have area and space,
be directed by the needs of the colour itself
not by some consideration of form.
A large blue square is bluer than a small blue square.
A blue pentagon is a different blue from a triangle of the same blue.
Let the blueness itself evolve the form which gives its fullest expression.
This is the starting-point of my secret artistic creation.

 
And so, with his presentation at a close, he thanks singer and pianist and retreats to his strategically safe seat. This is what he came for, pour l’encouragement des autres by puttin.g himself on the line, that tightrope the composer walks when presenting a new work. They will have to trust him, and he has to trust them, and that, he knows, is some way away. This is not a dramatic work. Its drama is an interior one. It is a love story. It is about the friendship of artists and about their world. It is a tableau that represents a time in European culture that we are possibly only now beginning to understand as we crowd out Tate Modern to view Picasso, Mondrian, Braque and Brancusi.
Mysterious Poet Feb 2017
The colour of the staggering sky
The colour of the nice night sky
The colour of the outstanding ocean
The colour of many beautiful things
Just like your elegant eyes
Blue

The colour of the soft sakura
The colour of long lasting love
The colour of the rare rhodolite
The colour of many amazing thungs
Just like your luscious lips
Pink

The colour of the shining sun
The colour of the simmering sunflower
The colour of a cute canary
The colour of many gorgeous things
Just like your hot hair
Yellow
The colour of love is Red.
It's thick like blood,
****, powerful, sinister.
Once you get it you need it to survive.

The colour of love is Blue.
It's like the sky,
Gentle, smooth, enlightening.
Wide, it can't be contained,
It only contains.

The colour of love is Purple.
It's like a bandaid,
Fun, mysterious, bold.
Covers and helps the healing process,
But hurts you when it is removed.

The colour of love is Green.
It's like a tree,
Free-spirited, fresh, youthful.
It gives life, food, norishment,
It only survives if you feed it.

The colour of love is Pink.
It's like a pair of high heal shoes,
Girly, happy, funny.
Elevating, increasing, aching,
Tall enough to be notice and to be ignored.

The colour of love is Yellow.
It's like the sun,
Bright, beaming, it stands out.
The bigger it is the more you see it,
And the closer you get the more you get burnt.

The colour of love is Orange.
It's like a good laugh,
Surprising, uncontrolable, ugly.
Once you start it's hard to stop.
It's addictive you yern for the feeling.

The colour of love is White and Black.
It's like ying and yang,
Needs to be balanced in order to exist.
Impossible to be live without and equally impossible to live with.
It's not a colour, can't be described.
                     ~Gabbriella with 2 b's~
Before I met you,
My life was filled with a colour
Black the colour of darkness
That pours from a part of our hearts
Black the colour of emptiness
Every day was the same
Before I met you

When we met
You showed me our lives is not only a colour
But a whole rainbow
You taught me and I leant from you
When we met

Red, the colour of love
Bursting from our hearts
Orange, the colour of joy
Bounces from body to body
Yellow, the colour of freshness
Raidiates from our bodies after a shower

Green, the colour of jealousy
Accidentally slips from our mouths
Blue, the colour of sadness
Pours from our eyes
Purple, the colour of power
Imagining we all had it

But when we met
You told me each colour has its opposites...
Black, the colour of strength
Which doesn't always comes from the flex in your arms
Before I met you.
Broken crayons do colour
They might have snapped me on the inside
But my ends
My ends still colour
Yes I may not tell the story like others do
But my story still matters
My story is quite unique
But we are all still made of the same wax
Some of us just have a lot to lose
Our lights are not as bright as others
We walk half empty,half full
We faced battles much earlier
We are much hollow
But my ends still do colour
You see I might be able to be repaired on the inside but I still do colour
I colour much more carefully not trying to smudge the edges
I colour much harder than you do
But I still colour
Beacause my ends still colour
I might be snapped in the middle
But broken crayons still colour
Joe Wilson Sep 2014
My many coloured life...

Colour me brown for the woods I played in as a boy
For the bow and arrows I used for a toy
For the friends and the fun and the unfettered joy.

Colour me beige for my calm and neutral look at life
The nothingness that could have been spread with a knife
The colour I felt before I loved my wife.

Colour me green for the nature that surrounds
For the children we had and there ever happy sounds
For the promise that their future hopes abound.

Colour me cream for your quiet elegant ways
That fill my life with beautiful days
The joy of being in a life-long phase.

Colour me blue for the truth you speak
For the trust you gave when my life was bleak
For the quiet solitude we sometimes seek.

Colour me pink for the true love you give
For the beauty of each and every day that we live
For the small thoughtless sins that you always forgive.

Colour me red for the passion we still feel
For each other a passion that is still very real
For the hearts that we tied with an emotional seal.

Colour me purple for the compassion you hold
For the sensitive spirits that with you unfold
For the judgement and dreams that help me feel bold.

Colour me yellow for the wisdom you set free
For the knowledge I learnt so empowering to see
For the sunshine in your heart saved especially for me.

Colour me all the colours so magnificently
You gave to me life far far less ordinary
You gave me your love and you showed to me…me.

©Joe Wilson – My many coloured life…2014
Saïda Boūzazy May 2019
If
If I were a colour, I'll be red  the colour of love
If I were a colour,  I will be yellow the colour of the sunflower
And you will be my sun
If I were a colour, I'll be pink the colour of roses that bloom for you everywhere
If I were a colour, I'll be blue the colour of the sky
If I were a colour, I will be back the colour of the night
If I were a colour, I will be red the colour of your blood
Being therefore your immortal  friend
George Krokos Dec 2011
Red is the colour of blood that flows in the body of all creatures given birth
Green is the colour of grass that like a carpet covers a lot of the soil of earth
Blue is the colour of sky that surrounds this world and is of an infinite girth
All three colours come from a Single Source having an Immeasurable worth.

Red is also the colour of danger and a symbol which indicates all to beware
Green is also the colour of the leaves that most of the plants and trees wear
Blue is also the colour of water that covers most of this world which is fair
Three colours are the original blend of all those others found in nature there.

Red is also the colour of anger, passion or pain that is expressed, felt and seen
Green is also the colour of something natural an indication of where it has been
Blue is also the colour of Infinity and the light glowing in a mind which is clean
And all three colours are shades of One Light the essence of all universal sheen.

Of all the three colours I like blue the most as it seems to be uniquely sublime
It speaks to me of loftier and deeper things that were experienced in my prime
It also represents the colour of the biggest phenomena known to man in time
Being a symbol of That in which all exist and from which all began to chime.

------------------------------------
Note:
There are many other colors but as far as those which form the basis of technology there are only three i.e; as in a R.G.B. monitor and screen projector etc.
Private collection - written in 1997.
MisfitOfSociety May 2019
You enter into the neighbor's room, clenching a knife cutting the morning light across the room. You are moving surreptitiously.  
There is a colour on the knife. It's colour reflects an image of you upon it. You look down at your body, and notice the colour reflects there too.
You notice there are two people around you, a male and a female, and their colour is yours too.

You taste the colour of death on your tongue, you share the taste with the people in the room.
You share it with the knife, you share it with the floor, you share it with all the neighbor's next door.
You followed them home, to share the colour with them..
The colour alludes you, it brings you a high. You like how it tastes to die.
kiran goswami Feb 2019
If I were a colour,
I'd choose to be red,
Running down his veins
and kissing his
Curves and corners
and edges and vertices.
If I were a colour,
I'd choose to be pink,
I'd be the loving heartbeats that beat synchronized
and the love which is in the air.
If I were a colour,
I'd choose to be yellow,
I'd be the sunflowers in the field
smiling at the sun with sorrow.
If I were a colour,
I'd choose to be brown,
I will be the colour if his eyes
and the sparkle in them that never dies.
The soil on which he would sit and cry
and one fine day
leave me with a dejected goodbye.
If I were a colour,
I'd choose to be black,
embarrassing the moon and earth in my arms,
I'd be the colour they see
after the eyes are closed
and the world is dark.
Tawanda Mulalu Nov 2014
I.

Let me tell you right now that red is my favourite colour
But I got it on with blue, some would say that that’s a blunder
I wonder is… infidelity the vibe of this poem?
Some secret guilt in my mind, that I’ve decided to be owning

Up to, I've got to, spill it out of my heart
I've had no idea what to say, but I've commited to start
A statement that’s an indictment to romantic commitment-
So let’s face it: when it comes to love, haven't all of us been sinning?

At some point, nobody can claim to never ever have smirked
At their own version of the colour red in hoping that it might work
Even though your girl’s colour is blue and you know that this much is true…
You kinda now desire sunsets instead of plain skies; and thus seek a more maroon hue


Skies change with the sun, time influences that
But listen, honestly, what I feel, it’s deeper than that

Blue and red seem only to be opposite colours of the visible spectrum
But actually flow into one another, from point A to B, like a pendulum

So my real problem is denial: I'm not really interested in swinging back
Because whenever I see red again…I can't help thinking that blue is just a fade to black.


And black scares me because it represents…
And black scares me because it represents…
And black scares me because it represents…
And black scares me because it represents…


II.

Literature taught me that cheating is immoral but understandable
From the point of Gatsby and Daisy it’s not even that reprehensible
The thing is, I still see the American Dream in another colour
No red, white and blue and great starry flag of wonder

But being honest to the context I should only omit the white
And keep red and blue; so it follows that my greed is merely self-directed spite
In this way I am suggesting a hint of hatred towards myself
As I’m unable to colour-block my view of my colourless self

I mean that I'm disappointed in being able to reduce
Myself to old, novel characters…as a result I have deduced
That blue and red don't matter when my true colours are grey
I’m ashamed in having even having tried (and failed) to pick (just one).
But all the same…


Skies change with the sun, time influences that
But listen, honestly, what I feel, it’s deeper than that

Blue and red seem only to be opposite colours of the visible spectrum
But actually flow into one another, from point A to B, like a pendulum

So my real problem is denial: I'm not really interested in swinging back
Because whenever I see red again…I can't help thinking that blue is just a fade to black.


And black scares me because it represents…
And black scares me because it represents…
And black scares me because it represents…
And black scares me because it represents…


III.

Though I'm still wishing that… her sunset becomes my sunrise, and envelops the sky
But regretting… her blue fades away, painfully, I’m left to die
As the sun will too soon turn to night, driving me to gentle panic
I know this now: colourless people always beg for a rainbow because they can never have it.

...******.

I apologize to blue for making her feel even bluer.
I apologize to red for using her to make me feel better.
I’m sorry to myself for making myself so bitter.
So suddenly has my soul, become colder than this winter...

Thus the part of the poem where I conclude with the theme
Of the echoes within me which of course are only dead dreams
I had looked to you, red and/or blue, in hoping you could redeem
Me to your world of colour. But present reality is different, which can only mean
That...


Skies changed with the sun, time influenced that
But listen, honestly, what I felt, was deeper than that

Blue and red seemed only to be opposite colours of the visible spectrum
But actually flowed into one another, from point A to B, like a pendulum

So my real problem was denial, I wasn't really interested in swinging back
Because whenever I saw red again… I couldn't help thinking that blue was just a fade to black.


And black scared me because it represented…
And black scared me because it represented…
And black scared me because it represented…
And black scared me because it represented…
This is a somewhat edited version of a spoken-word piece I did for a poetry show called 'Verbal Emancipation.' The raw version is up on my blog at http://lifeinthethirdperson.blogspot.com/2014/11/colour.html.
Soumia May 2014
I am a person of colour

Whose simple presence can cause outrage
they use their tongues as swords
and slay me with slurs
Whilst there are others who pretend to be my ally
but I can see their disgust in their eyes
their uneasiness in their smile

I am a person of colour

Whose beautiful traditional garments are cherry-picked
and woven into a disgusting replica
brandished on “Designer labels”
and mocked as exotic

I am a person of colour

Whose skin is secretly envied by them
they exhaust their expenses on tanning salons
and “bronzing” creams
Yet simultaneously they spit on my “darkness”
and promote their products with the so-called beauty of “lightness”

I am a person of colour**

I shall not hide my anger at their ignorance
I shall wear my skin with pride
Because being a person of colour
No matter what I do or how I conform
They will never be satisfied
envydean Jun 2017
Look up to the sky, see it painted with colour
As the day turns to night
And the moon shines bright

Look up to the sky, see it painted with colour
As they lie quietly in the back
Leather beneath them, they hit the sack

Look up to the sky, see it painted with colour
An angel watching over them
As for sleeping, he won’t succumb

Look up to the sky, see it painted with colour
Another hunt done
Another war won

Look up to the sky, see it painted with colour
They’re tired and haunted
Their dreams distorted

Look up to the sky, see it painted with colour
Dawn arises high
It’s quite a drive but they’ll get by

Look up to the sky, see it painted with colour
An angel and two brothers
Saving people, hunting others
written for the SPN Poetry Challenge (first line is the prompt)
xuans Aug 2015
red: the colour of luscious lips
oh, the way it branded my skin
the touch of your fingertips
love letters in indelible ink

red, the colour of your cheeks
as I caressed your face gently
my, I wished I could take a lick!
of course, only with my pinky

blue, the colour of your bright eyes
a lovely sparkle of genius
like the soft glow of the sunrise
please, arise these tears not from fears.

blue, the colour of your summer gown
when you first said I was a dear
then you proceeded with a frown
tucking your heart next to mine, here.

brown, the colour of your long hair
as it fell in waves from your head
you clung like I was a stuffed bear
like a toy you would bring to bed

brown, the colour of our photos
the faded sense of nostalgia
has kept me on my tippy toes
that I'll see you again, right here
Roseanna H Jul 2011
Grey is the colour of the winter sky that wraps it's dull arms around me each day that I wake.
Green is the colour of his eyes that looked at me as though I was too beautiful to break.
Red is the colour of my eyes after months without sleep and too many days spent crying.
Black is the colour of the pain inside my heart after giving up on trying.
Yellow is the colour of the sun in spring that can no longer warm my soul.
Blue is the colour running through my veins that burn for me to feel whole.
Brown is the colour of his skin as I bury my happy face in the curve of his neck.
Pink is the colour of the lipstick that I apply to cover up the fact that I'm a wreck.

And please know that while you’re living your life, I’m in the dark falling apart.
Because you are the colour forever in my heart..
Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?
And what has he been after, that they groan and shake their fists?
And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?
Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.

'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;
In the good old time 'twas hanging for the colour that it is;
Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair
For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.

Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid
To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;
But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare,
And they're taking him to justice for the colour of his hair.

Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet,
And the quarry-gang on portland in the cold and in the heat,
And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare
He can curse the god that made him for the colour of his hair.

— The End —