My favorite color is purple.
I have 8 chickens,
2 cats,
And one dog.
Sometimes when its quiet,
you can hear me scream.
My favorite color is purple.
I hate peanut butter.
The smell of cigarettes soaks my father's car.
The sound of his shouts still ring in my ears,
Long after he has stopped.
My favorite color is purple,
Purple like an old bruise.
Purple like that strange in-between,
Of sunset and night.
My favorite color is purple.
I feel purple,
The color of an old bruise,
A rotten plum,
On the counter at the house,
That no one pays attention to.
Because something so terribly sweet,
So sickeningly purple,
Must be rotten.
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Author:
Janey (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: May 29th, 2026 07:10
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 9
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments4
Purple fruit is delicious, if ripened on the vine: in premium condition, makes the sweetest wine.
The repetition the simple is what it is statements the use of senses and the association of the color with an emotional state and feeling all give this a fave. It was fabulous!!! So simple, so pure, innocent, childlike it was poetry to me
Janey, this is devastating in its simplicity. The repeated “My favorite color is purple” begins innocently, almost childlike, and then grows heavier each time it returns. By the end, it carries an entirely different meaning. Powerful work, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
I love peanut butter, but purple is a great color, so we can at least agree on that dear poet 🙂
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