"purpley" poems
touch
bumpy
sandpaper
ridged
crusty
sight
half moon shape
yellow
green
purple
taste
lemony
cherryee
limey
purpley
smell
good
like sugar up my nose
like lemons
like cherry
sound
crunch
squish
crackle crackle
yum yum
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
What colour are Mondays?
Red? Well mine are.
The same colour
you’d imagine a headache to be,
tomatoes, morello cherries
or like a nosebleed.
Does that mean Tuesdays are blue?
That mouthwash shade,
brain-freeze after a Slushie.
Wednesdays? Perhaps purpley-pink
as burning potassium,
Parma Violets under your tongue.
Thoughts on Thursdays? Fake-tanned,
tangerine skin, the ugliest orange
for the ugliest day.
But Fridays are a healthier green,
think telephone-pole celery,
cucumber truncheons and kiwis.
Saturdays then? Funeral black
speckled with brown sugar
though Sundays are white.
Hurts-your-eyes-like-snow white,
almost transparent, for they come
and dash by with no tone in-between.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
i.
In the hysteria of absolute clarity
- *Otherwise known as the aftermath
Of an epiphanic experience or
47 revelations of elemental semblance* -
One sees one in all, and in
All men, Angels.
____________
ii.
I live in the suburbs;
New subdivisions sitting on
Sliced up ground, where elvish houses sat
Comfortably twelve years prior.
The flowerbeds tell stories
In a Tolkeinesque script.
iii.
But the air's clear here, I can't complain.
We've sunshine and enough rain to sustain
The whole football team... we're in A division this year,
My last in high school...
*but I still pigged out on candy today,
don't tell mom*
iv.
I've been listening more to the silence
And counted seventeen days,
Sequentially (and to my disgruntlement;
thus I dare not jest),
Wherein alarum bells did roar
From iron red chest
v.
Took Casper to the hospital downtown
On a day like today, hey
It was raining then too...
He had candy in his veins,
And purpley-white too tight skin.
I still pray for his life every Sunday night.
vi.
All Hallows' Eve, now two years past,
Beneath a blood moon
Did the two dance, and sat inside
A crippled tree
To laugh and kiss;
Make merry of a mutual sense of entropy
vii.
In slow motion with
devils dust and funguses and herbs
They brewed and spewed as
We watched and sang to each other
And I learned that demons are in
All men
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC
She hated being asked to describe herself.
Why do they care?
She never saw a point in sharing her point of view.
Their description is all they will care about.
She thought that she was funny and friendly.
Everyone else thought that she was easily looked over.
She was constantly called boring.
She started to believe them.
She knew she was bland.
She knew that was a problem.
The color red is exciting. Maybe I'll add that to my skin.
Patterns covered her flesh and purpley reddish scars.
She thought that it would make her less boring.
It only worked for a while.
Adrenaline rushes are exciting, not boring.
That is what she thought as she jumped.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 11:32 AM UTC
tears well when i think of your hand arms under the pillow head above eyelids closed and flickering with dreams i hold the tense muscle of your forearm the skeletal hand with botanic veins green skin purpley grey i miss your gentle kiss tongue sliding underneath my top lip back and forth across my teeth until my jaw and eyeballs are loose. i wish your lips on my shoulder. i wish you well. well i wish i could’ve kept you under my spell. am i the only one who drank the potion? only fools rush in so is a fool who rushed in made clever if he runs back the way he came? ….or just an ******* excuse my french but you turn me into a ***** i’d fix you whole without the use of even a wrench but none of my tools could fix your desire for loneliness. and that’s not even a wound, not even anything broken for you, only me, one who needs you to feel complete. I’m such a romantic. why am i, seventeen and lovely, fresh, talented, fairly intelligent, and all around endearing so..so frantic? you said yourself you aren't worth it, all this, this ******* trouble. why is that so hard for me to believe? i sound ******* silly. this isn’t even poetic.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 4:32 AM UTC
Self harm is a disgusting
little sadistic, vile creature
who sits on my shoulder,
quiet, so quiet;
I forget he's there.
He sits and bides his time,
waiting, waiting.
Waiting, until I am
angry or lonely or depressed.
Then he whispers,
in a saccharine,
sickly sweet voice,
how much prettier I'd look,
with bite marks littering my arms.
Dark pink crescents,
over and over,
hard enough to bruise,
so that, days later,
little purpley-green marks
decorate my wrists.
Most days, I give in.
I try though, not to.
I clamp my jaw and press
my thumb into old bruises.
I know it hurts Sh-,
and that's the last thing I want.
*Show me your wrist and I
Show me your wrist and
Show me your wrist
and I'll kiss it, kiss it.*
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 1:12 AM UTC
Used to love to find them
Not quite sure why
Those sweet little purpley bruises
Reminders of thick fingers on
Hips, sides, thighs
They are the reminders of thick rough fingers
That pulled and prodded me
Out of misery
And into love
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC