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Red


When I'm red,
I write.

I write with red ink,
with strained fingers,
with flaming intentions.

I write about cherry lip smiles,
about red hot frustrations,
about uncontrollable energy.

When I'm red,
everything inside me is pushed
straight over the limit,
straight into the lava boiling
deep in my volcano.


Well today I'm not even close
to being the slightest shade of pink,

but my fingers still scribble words.

A contest entry

Please tell me what you think

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Comments

  • strangerforeigner
    February 8, 2008

    Edit | Reply
    This is good. Very vivid. I liked it a lot. I thought the last stanza was a little weak, a transition stanza might be good, like what causes you not to have that heat? Thanks for entering and good luck in my contest.


  • HorrorFiend
    August 14, 2007

    Edit | Reply
    "Well today I'm not even close
    to being the slightest shade of pink,"

    First off, that was such an amazing line after all the talk of red.

    This poem was perfect, enough said. I loved it.