I color my life
with the whole box of crayons.
The jumbo king box that gives
me variety that's the spice of life.

Red becomes like hues of lips I kiss day with in gratitude. By cheeks pinched by sun and cool breeze.

Blue to draw sky I walk under. By feelings of sadness that need to make way for safire diamonds in heart.

Yellow to scetch a rising sun that accents day. By yellow wings that fly gracefully making me sing.

Green exploding in hands to grow tall trees with flowers grand. By grassroots that tickle feet to expand dreams.

I could go on for 300 miles the colors in my box so I will curtail it to one more thing. The rainbow I draw in mind and heart. The one I follow and weave in conscious that carries every color ever imagined.

And there I wander comforted by a woven rainbow fabric in all kinds of weather

A vessel of infinite imaginings woven
in the kaleidoscope of innocence,
seeing you for that moment,
as life breathed you into my arms.

Fluid motions of gratitude, as noses
met and a smile versed on daddies
eyes. Wonderment that this innocence
had a mothers beautiful eyes.

You were a little box of crayons,
the randomness of your expressions
drew smiles upon a grateful parents
faces, gazed at you with gleeful reflection.

You were a gift to our memory, a story
to verse on your years yet to pass.
Your our little box of crayons, waiting to
see which colours draw upon our lives.

I don't give two ***** about how I look.
Noticeably.
Face is like a spring bloom,
Except all the blooms are reddish, bursting, bleeding buds.
My head is everywhere rounded:
Pictures accentuate the impeccable sphere.
So what?

But I tell you,
When waiters give me kiddie menus without a second thought,
They better not ******* forget the crayons.

I Felt●

How
You curled
Your hands from the heights

Did instigate●

I
Felt
I could fly and catch your smiles
I felt I could fly but to that mile
Just like the kites●

In
Endless fantasies
I clench myself like colourful crayons●

But
Someway,somehow
I felt each had a riven beak
And foil me
To print the picture of these delusions
So bright●

Now
I feel am right,and myself
Waving back to the same heights●

I Felt●

©Historian E.Lexano

With the box lid closed
It's dark inside,
There are no colours
We can't abide.
But a golden sliver of light seeps in,
To expose the colours there within.
We see red when enraged,
And scarlet dancers crowd our stage;
A red-blooded male brags virility
Through rose-coloured glasses of masculinity.
Some grow green with envy,
Reveal they're yellow in enmity,
Are blue when feeling empathy,
Turn blue holding out for sympathy,
Are tickled pink with comedy,
And white as a sheet with tragedy,
Or brown-nosed with syncophany.
If your yellow-bellied you may run,
And green-gilled after Jamaican ***,
Write purple prose when versifying,
Ashen coloured when you're dying.
True colours show outside the box,
Use grey cells to colour unorthodox.
Our true colours are harlequin,
That fade to black at our end.

Broken crayons still write but broken dreams remain shattered.

you are like a white crayon
valuable with superseding other colors
you show authority when no one else would

and for you, my white crayon
may i never stray away from objectives
and may you always be simply
a white crayon
useless in the eyes of some, but when used in a correct manner
you become infinite.