Tonight I think I will paint my thoughts
And slick black cynicism on each nail
Wondering while they dry
How many poems titled Love
Written but never finished
And how many children actually use the white crayon
In the box of 63 other choices
With a sharpener on the back
I am that ****** white crayon
And my own box of 24 wouldn't last a week
Because I always used the Sunshine Yellow
And never touched the Cornflower Blue
That transparent, cold, doctor's office blue
But I regret it now
Because I know how that **** feels