So often I feel that I do not exist
And I have wondered what it would be like
to allow myself to
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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!

so there they sit,
drawing like idiots,
without a care in the world.
drooling, coughing, smiling
laughing, shrieking.
like life is an all you can eat buffet.
the things they have to look forward to:
heartbreak, health insurance, taxes, rent, a tedious
job, a loveless marriage, the death of a loved one - and then their own.
so I walk up to them and break their crayons,
to warn them of the evils of this world,
and they cry.
now they know how the world works.
but then then the pretty blonde waitress brings them another crayon.
they stop wailing, get distracted,
move on.
and I'm bitter because a pretty blonde lady isn't handing me any crayons, or paying my rent, or laying in my bed.
and those kids
never worked at Denny's, got evicted, or got their car stolen.
- they have earned nothing.
and those kids
have never had ***, drank beer, climbed a mountain, or carried their lives in a backpack
- they have lived nothing.
and the waitress hands me my receipt,
and I smirk,
because she scribbled a note on it:

"415-555-3827
call me,
Stacy

PS that was the last crayon."

So I live like a child.
Does it matter? No order, late, happy.
Should I get caught up in a relationship or work only for money. Na ah Im better off dealing with myself first. I dont see why people get to hate themselfs or maybe its the crayons speaking.

a world so crumpled in the folds
of black and white exhibit
no color, no individuality
or hopefulness.

  a world of conditions,
agreements, and contracts
dwindled the creative senses
of the budding youth and
the creativity of the
newly implied, fruitful minds,
but the youth never entirely failed.

   when pushed down into the
heaps of ranks amd despair, a
dew hopefuls remained.


  youth used the broken bits of
crayons, of whole pieces and
shavings to apply to the crumpled
corners of the world,
starting off with a few swipes of color
among the horizon
and the skyscrapers of the world.

  the once black and white world
began to blossom in shades of
violets and yellows, bleeding
down the white pages, smearing
among that of shades of
blues and greens,
creating a world that was once
referred by legends or stories
as being a
a world full of color,
a world so fruitful in love
and perseverance, and
it ended up being strong
enough again to become reborn
once more from the hands of the
youth.