Young Writers Society

Chasing Rainbows

i.

"It's a sin."

Lips pressed together
forming a mess of
'California Sunset'
and 'Red Roses'
into a shade all their own;
they eyes of those
just passing by flashing
like emergency signs.

"Your case will never win."

Yesterdays rainbows swept
away by the storm
of supporters of societies norm,
clouds of smoke and
flooded gutters filled by
the pollution of those
who wished only to
see pink and blue
instead of the
beauty of colorful skies
across the bright blue sky.

"She can't be your wife."

The sound of church bells
fired into their heads,
the shaking of two
mistreated souls then separated
by the force of a
law considered 'holy'.

"Why did she take her life?"

False tears streaming from
those who chose to see
only see two colors,
the tears of those who
chased rainbows mixing
with the ash of a
life that would soon
become their unfortunate fate.

(b.m.)

Abime Coer

ii.

"Secours moir." elle cri,
campon a la restes de
elle abime coeur.

(b.m.)

I wish I could understand French. XD As it is, it's so lovely seeing you NaPo in another language. ^^

Rainbows is so rich with imagery, mrm. I also like the way you wove the entirety of the story together; narrative poetry usually has this prose-like quality to it, but your writing is very vividly dreamlike!

Keep writing~ x

Thank you so much. c: The translation, if you're curious (though the syllables are off in English) :

"Help me" she cried,
clinging at the remains of
her tattered heart.

"And the 'fishes' gave her kisses."

iii.

Freedom lay just around
the bend of the river--
cold water twisting it's way
against the winds wishes
to venture toward the light
--darkness letting shadows ride
upon discarded treasures
to one day rest upon
the rocks that have witnessed
many moonless nights.

With a wink to the sky,
she crossed her heart
and wished to die.

Tumbling,

falling,

t w i s t i n g,

with the rushing rapids.
And in her last moments,
she let the fish give
her kisses that her
discarded body had long desired,
her perishing existence than twinkling
in the darkened sky to
guide the next child of light
into the sacred shadows of darkness.

(b.m.)

Windy nights by the candle light.

iv.

He was a candle
on a windy night.
Powerful,
hotly burning,
and full of light
to fight against
the darkness.
But sometimes the wind
pushed him around
and he unwillingly
scolded my unsuspecting heart,
leaving me with scars
and smoldering ember
in my mind
whilst he then fought for
his vengeance against
the moving air.

(b.m.)

The petals are dead.

v.


My first poem to you
was one of flowers that's
picked petals twirled
in the afternoon wind.
One of the love that
spun around my head and
kept my heart jumping
faster than the rabbits
that came to visit the
meadow of flowers.

This was page one.

In between the book
was the brittle flowers,
once freshly picked
underneath a sunset sky.
Tear stains littered the
details of rainy days
and darkened nights.

My last poem to you
was the blood-stained
account of how flowers
only die with age and
the coldness of changing seasons
kill the potential of
a new garden to bloom.
One that hinted of a future
resting underneath
the next generation's
garden of weeds.


This was the last page.

(b.m.)

vi.

The wind was whispering
of a hearts new mistake
as lips collided underneath forest branches
that overlooked a thriving blue lake.

Now with regret, he could remember
how her words once plucked at his veins
and how he once dreamed a gun's silvery
bullets would leave only his hearts remains.

(b.m.)

vii.

Free from the light,
the screen's once
flat neon light
jumped for the heavens,
being dragged back under
each time the light
attempted it's flight
until it had found a
center of gravity
to balance between.

(b.m.)

viii.

01.01.13

My name is Brianna.
Three syllables that fly
from the unsuspecting tongue.
Little did they know that
the summon of my name
only left for a world full
of pain for those who called.
I've got a secret that I
want the world to hear--
run now,
and do it quickly--
because it's only with
the changing of seasons
that my heart and mind
switch reasons to react upon.

I am the falling rain,
freezing over as the light
warming innocent hearts
is ripped to different skies.

An umbrella can't protect
you from me now.


01.01.14

My name is Brie.
A string of four letters that
fall from the bitter tongue.
Their tiny minds can't
seem to comprehend
that the calling of my name
leaves only tracing lines
upon their wrists that will
one day be colored with
the red of their regret.
My secrets lay trapped--
not that anyone
was listening--
between two pursed lips,
clean of any color
much desired by society.

I am the shadow lurking
behind your brightened day,
creeping out of view yet
remaining barely visible.

With each ray of light,
I disappear.

01.01.15

The tombstone reads a name;
Brianna

A clueless child
caresses the deep carvings
on the curved stone,
dropping flowers on a painted
box just like her mother did.
Though she didn't understand
why the 'big kids' were crying,
she knew that the dark clouds
covering the sky meant it was
time to go inside to avoid the rain.

(b.m.)

ix.

In December,
two pinkie fingers
locked in a promise
as snow fell on
their shaking figures.
"Promise you'll meet
me here each month?"
was the question
now twisted in
their littlest fingers.

In January,
two tones of laughter
bounced from the clusters
of naked trees trunks.
Snow was flung
through the frozen air
until it stuck
to the fragile fibers
of their woolen coats.
And again,
the twist of
two pinkie fingers
set the next
meeting date,
then the two shaking figures
parted separate ways.

In February,
two sets of boots
waded through the
puddles of slush,
the sound of birds
filling the air.
Two frozen pinkies
locked once more,
wading separate ways
only after their
promise had been made.

In March,
two nets swished
at the wilted blades
of green and brown
in the hopes of
catching fireflies.
The setting sun
conducted the night
to sing it's song
of chirps and clicks,
two sets of ears
listening with glee.
Darkness led, once more,
two pinkie fingers
to lock into a
promise of the next month.

In April,
two pink tongues
caught the falling
drops of rain,
two huddling figures
then taking refugee from
the rain underneath
the tree's as it poured.
At the sight of
a slowly fading rainbow,
two shriveled pinkies
wet from the rain
locked in a promise.

In May,
two flowers
were plucked of
their petals in
order to determine
the truth of love,
joy upon the two faces
as they learned
'He loves me!'.
Yet as the patch
of flowers were
stripped into bare
patches of weeds,
two fingers locked
in promise beneath
the setting sun.

In June,
two sun kissed figures
found refugee in
the tree's shadows,
squeamish giggles heard
as two sets of feet
bounced through the mud.
By sundown,
the two hiding figures
emerged and went
separate ways only
after locking pinkies.

In July,
two sets of eyes
watched in fascination
at the display
of multicolored
streaks of light.
Two pops and one crack,
decorating the sky
for the two figures
to gaze upon.
When the sky fell
back into darkness,
two locked pinkies
created fireworks all
their own before
they parted ways.

In August,
two pairs of
discarded sandals
lay against tree trunks,
imagination turning sticks
into swords as they
shouted battle cries
for an epic war.
When the 'war'
had ended in a tie,
two pinkie fingers
created a settlement
of peace before
two separate royals
parted to different kingdoms.

In September,
one mountain of leaves
hid two sets of lips
that tested how many
sparks they could make.
Yet as the wind
blew the leaves to
the demanding sky,
two pinkie fingers
locked firm before
they were swept
in different directions.

In October,
two figures wore
very diverse costumes.
One,
a healthy boy
and the other,
a fading boy
pale as a ghost.
They split candy,
counting the colorful
pieces in excitement.
Later, full with sugar,
one sturdy pinkie
locked with a shaking one,
making a promise
one more.

In November,
two shoes ran toward
the boy struggling to
trek through the snow.
One kiss from
two sets of lips
brought warmth to both,
frozen breath steaming
like smoke stacks
as they talked.
As frozen pieces
of natures art
fell upon their skin,
two pinkie fingers
locked in promise
to return once more.

In December,
two eyes cried tears
soon frozen on his face,
one pinkie finger
outstretched to the sky
in honor of
his love who died.

(b.m.)