Like a box of crayons,
We come in many shades, and
in many different colors,
Shades and skintones, we
Precede one another.
We have the reds, and
the Oranges galore,
and the rest of the colors,
that we certainly do adore.
We are like crayons,
We start off as perfect, but
When we're worned down,
We are tattered and broken,
We are still useful, although
our essence had faded,
We're used less and less, and
We start to feel degraded,
We are like these crayons,
We are still around, but
Our purpose becomes useless,
as we are dwindling on down!!!


B.R.
Date: 11/9/2024

many colors
many drawings
i made when i was three
but they would break
just like my heart
why would you do this
to me

i rip up the drawings
on my wall
screaming
at the world
but those crayons
the many colors
will always be there
for me

i cry
i scream
i starve
i cut
but those crayons
stand untouched
waiting
and waiting
and waiting
for me
to play with them again

Trying to look in one direction,
It's hard to navigate my own transition.

Many times, I see myself like no other, could I be your sister or your brother? So, then why should I even bother?

My feelings about myself appear difficult for others to comprehend as this has become my own rollercoaster to the sweet, bitter end.

It is not only a mindset of my own personal avenues that I must navigate but they are, also, my own internal processes to which I contemplate and separate.

The push pull of my internal devices appears harmful at times. Feelings of not being happy, called confused, or it's a just phase are word salad moments committing a series of crimes.

I know these interpretations that live inside of me, and I know that the choices that I make can either set me free or keep me locked up forever. Ying-yang in every mindful corner of the room.

I heard a saying the other day that said, "Broken crayons still color". First, I was at odds with this. Because was I really broken? Was my crayon wrapper torn off? Am I being labeled these things from distant voices?

These become unreliable truths made up in feeble minds. Not understanding the differences among us all. It is not creating comfortable realities for us to travel though. Their choices will define them and my choices will define me.

Do I struggle at times? For the most part, yes!!

But you know something.
I am ok with that.
I am ok making my own choices, and I am ok being the person I want to be. That is something that cannot be taken away.

Any transition in life can come with its own set of difficulties. How we navigate them will be the determining factors of our success in all that we do.

So often I feel that I do not exist
And I have wondered what it would be like
to allow myself to
D...................................
.......R.................­...........
...............I.....................
...............­........F.............
..............................T......
Just­ outside your field of vision
Blending in with the nothingness
that borders the outskirts
of your periphery
I want to be where I am not
Exist in liminal space
in emptiness
as nothing…
Broken charcoal
pencils and crayons
are all just as useful broken
as they are whole
A broken mirror
offers you your own reflection
fractured
warped
but it is still you
reflected

Not as eloquent
as a fountain pen,
not as artistic
as a sketching pencil,
not even as bright as a magic marker,
but one smart cookie to your kids.
We have cool names like
Cotton Candy, Manatee,
Razzmatazz and Inchworm,
and are non-toxic sticks of joy
to those little imaginations.

Yes, we sometimes look like
clumps of colored wax
smashed into tissue paper,
and we do break easily
or lose our wrappers at the drop of a hat,
then get tossed in a bag
or worse, become homeless.
And horror of horrors!
We’re reinvented as candles
or reheated into twisted zombies
of our former selves.

And neither do our achievements
reside in a museum or gallery,
why they're not even framed
and proudly displayed on a wall.
No, they're slapped on ***** refrigerators
and kept there by plastic alphabet
magnets that loosely spell
such mundane things
as ‘milk’, ‘cheese’ or ‘daddy is dumb,'
until they fall to the floor
or end up in the trash.

But hey man,
give us a break!
This is our plight,
it’s a harsh existence!
Perhaps we should organize,
form a union for children’s
writing and drawing utensils,
and thus ensure equality
for us crayons?

We realize, more than likely,
this poem's title will cause
some backlash by those
who insist it be called
‘Return of the Crayon,’
because we 'happy sticks', you see,
supposedly don’t take revenge.

Nonetheless, we stand by it.
It is what it is!
Your children love us
and so should you!