This month’s writing prompt was Rose Tinted. Here we showcase all the responses that were submitted.
Rose tinted prompt: Through rose tinted glasses, what do you see? Soft blush petals and a pink washed sky, lipstick stained mirrors and rosy cheeks? Love is blind and the colours are smudged. The heart believes whatever you show it; it’ll only see what you want it to see.
“morbid heartbeats”
i wish that i could throw intelligence and be wounds that you hold.
i wish that i could throw reason and be loneliness that you hold.
burn my logical thinking away,
by blaze of your kisses.
crush my objective thinking,
by darkness that you are obsessed with.
by Yuu Ikeda (@yuunnnn77 Insta & Twitter)
Rose tinted glasses on her eyes
Rose tinted glasses on her eyes
I fear about everything but I deny
She says chin up and don’t cry
Rose tinted glasses on her eyes
Pink berries in my hand
Children on the rooftop with a kite
Rose tinted glasses on her eyes
I fear about everything but I deny
by Inner Monologue (@inner__monologue__ Insta)
Gatsby
She was always his muse
Floating in a white dress
Drifting far at the end of the dock
Tell them
Tell them Daisy’s change’ her mind
Tell him
She is on her way
Beautiful little fool
Bathed in green she returns to recover his dreams
He wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath
His mind would never again romp
Daisy’s change’ her mind
He cries out
Can’t repeat the past?
Why of course you can!
by Lucy O’Neill (turningthepage08 Insta & TikTok)
Rose Tinted
Open Arms pink for deciding to try.
Bonica pink for believing it would be easy;
a wanted accident waiting to happen.
Wildeve pink for giddy passion.
Morning Mist pink for early hopes
and shared secrets.
Then comes the rot,
a browning petal stain.
Anne Boleyn pink for rising from the dead.
Tess of the D’urbervilles red for scheduled spontaneity.
Trumpeter red for gritted teeth at baby showers,
false smiles and ignored questions.
Scarlet Knight red for checking and rechecking
for fevers,
for ovulation,
for any sign of life.
Tranquillity white for clean knickers.
Desdemona white for the untaken test in her hands;
an answer waiting to bloom.
by Nico Deryn (@nico.deryn Insta)
On my commute to work, x tells me he used to drive Route 30. In the five-minute bus ride to City College, we hum about the all-consuming ocean views on Torrey Pines Road, the route’s most awestriking moment. His words reverberate, and there’s a splinter of vulnerability, of knowing, of learning. In those few minutes, the bus’s growls deafen, the steady electronic voice softens in the background, and the passengers disappear. I want him to indulge me with himself. I grip onto the humanness like velvet. The next time I find myself listening to the bus grovel on the uphill climb, I gaze at the sparkling vastness as the sun sinks below the horizon. The oranges
and pinks paint the sky. I think of him and dream of the next conversation, the next sliver of empathy I will piece together from him.
by Alissa Tu (@heyalissa Insta)
Counting your freckles
We belong to the cloudy haze of freshly dry cotton sheets.
Sunday morning euphoria warming our eyelashes
as the soft light shines through mistakenly open blinds.
Counting your freckles,
The golden stars that float around your face like fireflies.
I purposefully loose count to keep tracing the smile you bestow upon me.
I confessed my love in the rearrangement of those stars,
Maybe one day you could connect the dots,
and they’ll name a constellation after us.
But we are only on the sofa because your morning lie-ins don’t belong to me.
Here, your stars did not align,
your freckles are just brown,
and my blinds are firmly shut.
Here, we belong to the cloudy haze of daydreams and never to be love.
Yet I still find the question lingering:
How would you love?
by Elizabeth Brown
She seems the rosé type
She seems the rosé type,
Blushed cheeks sit aside peony pink lips,
Faint scent spritzed onto neck un-kissed,
Quaint gloves placed between neat fingertips.
Pruning hydrangeas under sun painted skies,
Knelt on blades of grass not an inch too high.
Perfectly plucked petals by delicate hand
Which then shapes into a wave for the figure who stands watching from across the lane.
Their face partially hidden behind the drapes
Apart from inquisitive eyes, which hold her gaze,
Wondering
is she the rosé type?
If only you could get beyond her perfect borders,
Uproot the lavender armour that grows towards her
and introduce yourself with your failsafe gift.
Pour her a glass that touches the rim,
and touches that sweet spot of her letting you in.
You’d sip and be silly together, amongst the willow tree limbs,
laughing and dancing until the light dims.
Finally intertwined,
Her spilling herself into your prying mind.
Every morning you surface
With these thoughts being your only purpose.
Watching as she tends to her garden of blooms,
Waiting for her to accidentally give you a clue
As to whether she’s the rosé type.
by Amy Hawkins
swim press 