Fire-Engine Red


Inspiration hits with a flash, stories written on the go. A rumble of laughter and the tale is heard only in echoes. The wind blows me in a new direction. Whom shall I visit next?

Today my nails are red; so are my shorts,

And, as I shaved my arms at CCH,

That colour flowed again. And, glad to see

My blood come dripping down, I slashed again.

Oh, fire-engine red looked fair to me--


But then I thought back, and I bit my tongue,

Recalled those fearful flames that burned us down--

Barely an hour before. Then came the rue,

And other flow resumed, splash in the sink.

Oh, what a brutal, savage thing to do!


I'm glad I dropped the a way,

As fury rang again in mem'ry's ear.

Self-care, you'd said? But I don't care. No. Not at all.

I missed those red flags--yes, I missed each one.

Me? Live and learn? No, dear; I fall and fall.


In time, I blotted eyes and all the nicks.

I blew my nose, I wiped the sink all dry;

I picked my bags up; left behind my hope;

Departed, eyes red. Left us there to die.


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Comments (1 so far!)

Robert Quick

Robert Quick

This poem is very good imho. Like submittable to a magazine or something, good. Pain is such a good motivator for art. Well good isn't the right word necessarily but the burning makes us productive. I hope that excising some of it helps you cope as much as it helps me.

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