I used to stay inside the lines prescribed
By those who seem to know what lines to draw.
They make things black and white for comforts sake
So we don't have to think about these lines,
Except the color of the space between.
I flawlessly made dragons' rainbow scales,
And colored many boxes perfectly.
I curved my waxy instrument along
The pitch black, cliff-like edge of lines, until
I slipped. I stared at the red so long and soon
All I saw was red; the page was red,
The room, the sky, the universe, my soul,
All red. I tried to fix my one mistake
But failed. Then I looked at the broken line, and saw
That it was not a picture I disliked—
Only for reminding me of my mistake—
But it was better for the flaw. I had
A taste for coloring outside the lines, and started
Doing such things on purpose--blue and orange
Outside the lines, and especially green. Mistakes
Had made my works of art unique, but soon
I made mistakes my only work. I bled
The colors—green and blue make black—on the page
To discover, like astronomers,
I could tear the page—I tore it.
Soon there I was, a Jack looking outside the box.
I didn't even notice my inhibitions had gone.
Of course,
The blur of lines had made me blind,
These pages, the universe, my soul were doomed,
But certain doom was at least a certainty.