Young Writers Society

Blooming Crimson Collection

This is an anthology of poetry from ‘Blooming Crimson’, a story that I haven’t finished writing, but wrote these poems to better structure the story.

Blooming Rose

A petal a bloom, fluttering

A thorn a garden, a showing.

Maybe it’s just me, maybe I’m ridiculous,

But when I see the wind create drifts and stirs in between,

Carrying petals and leaves along,

It reminds me.

It reminds me of you.

A sharp vine, crawling.

A sneak inside a garden.

The grass accentuate, no they illuminate,

Your bright hue, violent like blood, yet romantic as love,

Burning with unwavering spikes.

You can rest now, though.

You can rest knowing I remember, and won’t forget.

Blooming Vermilion 

As I look up, up above the vermilion sky,

I see a sea.

Then feel.

Then realize.

I realize a thing that aches my heart.

A memory I buried deep inside, to abyss.

It comes out.

It taunts.

It squeezes.

Though my emotions have been squeezed dry,

Though my heart can no longer cry,

I’ll still remember.

Maybe even reminisce.

I’ll look back, not with sorrow, but with longing.

A smile that fades into the sky, tainted,

By the color of sunset.

Blooming Amaranth

When time comes,

We’ll meet again.

When the wind blows,

We’ll see each other.

Not eye to eye, as we’re split apart by the styx and thames,

But shadow to shadow,

As I cherish the knicks that remain,

As I cherish the knacks you’ve made.

I’ll remember you,

Holding the ironic amaranth you gave.

I’ll remember you,

Holding a one way ticket, to your side.

Blooming Scarlet

The sky, engulfed in ebony black,

The ground, searing with flare,

People still seem to think

That overcoming is of choice.

It isn’t in fact.

The mere one in a hundred

Those seven-and-sixties repeat

That they think and deem easy,

Yet they barely know,

That fate has been sealed in destiny.

That fate was a bridge long burned down.

That fate has already long gone.

Sealed with a scarlet stamp.

Blooming Crimson

Cats chase and chase,

Creating chaos creatively.

I watch these felines.

Caught up, catering to the scene.

I concur, I concede.

The crimson flower that fell,

From a vase, could cause,

A heartache long forgotten.

Can I even call,

Out casting my voice,

Even though I’ve long

Ceased to remember how you look.

I look upon the cats constantly,

Seizing to forget, ceasing to think.

Distractions, confine.