"crayola" poems
Filter the perfect shade of the forenoon sun,
Not too bright, not too dull.
For with ease and carefree thoughts,
You let the sunbeam-drizzling fairies play
As the beauty reflected in your retinas.
Capture this scenic view:
Where the burnt chestnut colored oaks
And mudstained sweetheart sundress of yours
Dance in three-four beats of waltz.
The Crayola strokes of the skies
And the watercolor streaks of daydreams and nightmares
Paint the canvas of your disquited thoughts.
This is the peripheral view from your suncrashed irises and corners,
This is your world.
Let your knees down to your sore feet
Be engulfed by the chasms of the bewildered grass,
As the smile makes it way to your plump spring lips;
Callused fingers from guitar strings
Twirl and twist the blades,
Cutting through flesh
And green and red and blue and yellow,
All sorts of color came spilling from your playful bruise.
From this panoramic view of yours
Of a wonder wonderland,
Where the ticks of clock
Follow the sunflower throughout time and forever,
This is the beauty of that stem:
A key to escapism
To a well-dreamt lovely world.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 6:30 AM UTC
velcro wallet
was navy, i think
gray plastic zipper
grandma gave you
i had a locket
it had your picture inside
but you threw it away
because you looked like a rabbit
apparently
hair fluffed, eyes puffy
two teeth and two hours
of squirming on a photo booth
plastic coin pouch
small crayola blue
walmart sticker on a side
but it never made me smile
not like that piggy bank did
yard sale treasure
dinosaur-shaped
no smashing to withdrawl
our tooth fairy dollars and dust
still, you crammed stink bugs
down the long neck's back
now, a denim bag on my bed
rhinestoned one in the closet
and your wallet is
real leather, i think
has superheroes on it
rough and grungy
as the comic books in the attic
or, did you toss those too?
who needs a screwdriver
without a *****
that's all money was
just hardware we didn't have
much use for
but there is more than one way
to use a tool
so here, i'll paint it straighter
who needs a coffin without a corpse?
especially when we were
so full of life back then
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 9:13 PM UTC
Twisted sheets, mind on stutter
Unable to sort through this midnight clutter
Put it away for tomorrow
But what to do with my gnawing sorrow?
I circle soft blue on color book pages
Hoping the repetition eventually assuages
The raw edged reality of lonely dark hours
Filling the void with Crayola flowers
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
#teamara
As in the nub of the remains of crayola crayon that’s been used to color in so many smiling cartoon suns on a piece of paper-
Her favorite color is yellow.
And I don’t mean a wimpy *** pastel yellow or sometimes a pale yellow
I mean her favorite color is bright *** yellow.
Like Pikachu yellow.
Like she’s almost nineteen but she’s still willing to play Gameboy Pokemon yellow.
There’s something innocent yet corny kind of yellow about her.
She’s beautiful like yellow jirasol petals
She’s intricate as yellow thread woven in a Rasta Dom
She’s yellow like gold and Africa
She’s sweet like pineapples and delicate like daffodils
I still don’t know why her favorite color is yellow
Maybe it has to do with her fascination of Asian men…
I mean! ...with the continent of Asia
She thinks she’s more like pink Japanese cherry blossom trees in the summer
But I know she’s truly yellow petals on Paolo Verde trees blowing in the wind spreading around Tucson
A metaphor for her love
She’s yellow like the color in the middle of my pride rainbow- She supports me
She’s yellow like the big painted sun at the hospital with a big grin
I wonder why nobody smiles at hospitals
The place where life is easily given as taken
Where we are reminded that our health is sometimes taken for granted
Other than that great big yellow sun
She is the only that radiates yellow and smiles
In waiting rooms, she seems like she’s the calmest
Even though she’s the only one going through surgery
She’s so beautiful on the inside her body can’t even take it
She doesn’t deserve scions or scalpels to even be considered touching her bronze skin
I wish instead they would strip down the color yellow from my life
And give it to her to make her smile so bright that even word “cancer” would cease to exist
But still. Even through pain and hardships
She still smiles. Not only is she yellow when she’s happy
She tends to radiate yellow even when she’s gloomy
When I’m upset, her aura has way of rubbing off on mine
And I get insight to why her favorite color is yellow
*** she’s the kind of yellow that represents strength
She’s yellow like tall forts made from gold bars
She’s yellow like flames that roll of her tongue when she spits fire
She’s yellow like a crayola-crayon… except she can’t be broken
From her, I’m learning
That even when you’re hurting
You can still shine bright like your favorite color.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 3:55 PM UTC
Her crayola box lacks
all but two colors
-red and black-
mustn't go outside the borders
r ~ 8/4/14
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 5:52 AM UTC
Every child broken into a crayon box colours the same.
Jimmy and Bill would know.
The Knight time radio.
Their Daytime TV.
Technology gave us colour in our boxes for entertainment
And Two turn tables to scratch out the screaming.
55 inches in HD wasn't big enough to scribble on
Perfect reception but no one listened to the colours snap.
No one bothered to question why the paper is off the crayon.
I think of all those lost crayolas
being used for shadowing.
A cover inside a cover,
where pages should be in a book.
And here we are,
still drawing in black and white.
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC
Colored streaks on the pavement
Grinding stone against stone
We return our source of enjoyment to the Earth
Sidewalk chalk tastes like childhood.
Body tracings, blue skies, big fish-- our cement canvas is filled
Filled with youthful thoughts and unlikely realities
A world of our own creation;
One we can stomp on
Cross out
Wash away
The presence of an unknown friend
Everyone is a friend, we are young and naive
“Draw with us, Draw with us”
Our wonder reaped the same;
The new face shows only bewilderment
“Draw with us”
Chubby childish hands exchange colored chalk
Despite our encouragement, this outlander won’t join in
It’s now a game for us
“Draw with us, Draw with us”
Foreign motions, fast moving fingers, a frustrated face
“Draw with us”
His hesitant movements are masked
By an apologetic smile
He brings new things to our Crayola-created universe
A trumpet, its player, a lion in mid-roar,
All things ordinary
Nothing we’ve drawn before
Like the colors we immerse ourselves in
Our company doesn’t last
Our accomplice offers a wave
Leaving his silent marks in our little world.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 8:44 PM UTC
I couldn't care less about
"Inspirational Quotes"
I don't need to be told that
the present is a gift
or what the best thing about
rock bottom is
or that only I can stop forest fires.
If I was to write one myself,
it would have less to do with
landing in the stars,
and more to do with
how much better you could see them
if you had the eyes of an octopus.
See,
Octopi have such phenomenal eyes.
The spectrum of color they see
makes our own look like
the ****** box of crayons
you get at a kids restaurant.
Whereas an octopuses,
would be the beautiful,
64 Crayola pack
I always wanted as a kid.
If I ever went blind,
I think I'd get octopus eye replacements.
And yeah,
I'd probably look weird because
they'd be too big for my head
but can you imagine how
strange and incredible
it would be?
And it wouldn't matter how I look because
how I see things
is more important to me
than how I'm seen.
If there was even the
slightest chance,
of seeing though the
eyes of an octopus,
that's reason enough to be alive.
And if I could take your life
or your perspective,
and change it even a bit,
that's reason enough too.
So look through the
eyes of an octopus.
Can you imagine the stars?
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 1:18 PM UTC
my minds in the gutter like everything else
locked away in a urine-stained jail cell
sticks and stones are strong enough to break the cardboard walls
but i could give a **** like i have brass *****
starts out with self-demolition
dont tell em **** about your own position
allergic to guilt
break out in hives like bee stings
common cold world no cure for these things
dont chew your food so you can choke
jim carreys mask obscured the joke
green with envy crayola box
silent bomb with a digital clock
till death do us part
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC
09.01.13
I know the likelihood of me getting asked to prom measures up to the likelihood of anyone actually using the white crayon in the Crayola box. I am going to be the girl that’s not even on any guy’s Plan B.
And that would be totally cool except I’m sad.
I am shaking my head at God and how he totally owes me one.
Prom is supposed to be like, the fairytale moment! I’ve been dreaming of princes and ballrooms and dancing and romance and magic and love… probably since I was conceived. How could you even let the dreamer girl who wanted to be a princess nurture five hundred layers of beautiful only to coat her with thick paint in the shade called “ugly”? (Trivia: That drives boys away.)
So maybe I still made believe I was a princess. But often enough, the mirror reflects the facade, when I’m expecting it to hold my heart. It gets to a point that you just have to let go.
I have theories. I used to despair and say that I was in the wrong storybook. What a life for such a girl. But it happens that romantics don’t have anyone to hold. (Thus the teddy bears, I suppose. Do you know how hard I hug those? I am pathetic.) My second theory, is maybe I’ve been looking from the wrong perspective. Maybe my life isn’t going to be a fairytale in the way I expect. How about a modernized version or something?
It’s becoming obvious that I don’t really have any ideas.
Except for one last.
Maybe there’s a plot twist?
Maybe there’s a plot twist.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 8:01 AM UTC
In all our haunted houses
Are ghosts just wrapped in sheets
And the vampires and werewolves
Havent been seen in weeks
We diagnosed the children
Who heard voices in their rooms
Now all they do is paint the walls
In crayola crayon hues
And the monsters under our stairs and beds
Seek refuge in our closets
As we boiled imagination down
To vibrations in quartz deposits
Jun 20, 2011
Jun 20, 2011 at 8:40 AM UTC
on the day our eyes match the colour of a hedgehog-sky
released into the ether, will be.. 100 balloons waiting to pop
when these balloons have floated and decide to come down
that's the crucial-time when you'll grow aware of what is to be
:)
the mood of two rainbows will melt into liquid-crayola invertase-lakes
while we find so many nectar-filled spots to sate our hungered-bods
and I'll take that open-honey in me and feed you from my mouth
as you reach forward so easily and make me pliant to your will
S T - 29 nov 13
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
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.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 3:51 PM UTC
Sitting alone in my bed,
Anxiously yearning the touch of something different.
Contemplating about differences,
Visualizing the new experiences,
Mesmerizing about different beauties,
Fantasizing the new opportunities,
About women of different cultures,
Ethnicity and upbringing.
Pay no mind to the language barrier,
As our body speak that universal language,
We can have intellectual conversations,
We can have passionate interactions.
Lets's ponder with deep imagination,
As we diversify this love, ignore it's discrepancies,
So girls of all colors come closer and get drawn like crayola,
As we paint this picture to see what we can make of this blend of colors.
Envision this:
Background music effectively babysitting my thoughts as I listen,
Laying under the moon,
With that special person.
Inwardly rehearsing,
Every move to make,
Opportunities to take,
Intaking the passion from the air she breathes out,
Creating chemistry not even Einstein could figure out.
This love should be an equal opportunity,
You plus me that's all that should matter.
So would you explore your heart?
Release the stereotypes that keep you in the dark?
As darkness falls,
Our temperatures rise.
A reflection of moonlight shimmers in those eyes.
They tell me your secrets;
I tell you no lies.
What lies beneath your skin will be ugliness' demise.
Ironic, in the dark you see me for who I truly am.
And I tell you who you truly are.
So far. So good.
So deep, it goes beneath your beauty,
It goes beyond whatever society will tell you not to do with me.
Tonight your biases shall not rule thee,
For I am king of this pride.
Swallow your pride and swallow my pride.
Release the wait of inhibition and take this ride.
Our inner flames fueled by passion shall light our way.
They say, we are blind but it is only in darkness that we truly see.
Give up shallow emotions, let your heart be free.
Immerse yourself in this reality:
My love is river, all else is only skin deep.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 7:11 AM UTC
*You remind me of a
crayon box. And the
colours of purple and
blue. The colours of
sunsets found inside a
mango peel and the
shades of green in your
eyes before you take the mango
peel off and see it from inside.
And when you wear that
green pullover of yours
that reminds me of leprechauns
and four leaf clovers. I
know this might sound crazy
but darling its oh so true.
Orange and brown look
good on you too. Your
cheeks look like strawberry
pink when they freeze from
winters cold breeze. You
also remind me of my favorite
black crayon that i never
let go of during every single
art class. Deep mysterious
and full of secrets and stories
to be told. You remind me
of a crayon box because
you hold more beautiful colours
than any rainbow holds.
And that's why i smile every
time i touch my little crayola
crayon box because it always
brings me thoughts of you* ~
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 7:19 AM UTC
I almost wrote you a love poem
...but I don't love you.
Your crayola stained lies turned my blue skies to gray
so how could I be happy when there's no sunshine today?
No sunshine today turned to no sunshine to this date
so to this day I'm embodied in the darkness that you made.
I almost wrote you a love poem
but instead I wrote a riddle.
I repose homely in dark spaces
because I've adapted to the dark.
I'm engulfed in darkness
But I'm that gleaming light from afar.
Answer is,
I'm a Star.
Consensus:
Your devious dark deeds attempted to deviate
my direction and detach me from the light leaving me in darkness
but I empowered myself,
debunking your detrimental ways
and becoming the light you tried so hard to take from me.
I almost wrote you a love poem
and if I did,
it'd say I love you.
...but this isn't a love poem!
and the only I love yous I recall,
are the lies you told me
and the truths you told him.
I almost wrote you a love poem,
...and if I did,
If I did write you a love poem..
I bet I'd have nailed it!
...but you ******* it all up
and now,
who's really the fool?
I almost wrote you a love poem,
and if I did,
it would have went a little something like
...idk
because loving you is something I never want to do.
Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 10:34 AM UTC
The grown-ups have lied
Your pillow fort can't save you
because the Boogeyman is real
No use jumping under the covers and counting to ten
as you wait for the hand to rise up and pull you under the bed
The bed is no longer a raft adrift at sea
There is no current
There is no rescue party
Just me
And I'm here to tell you that the grown-ups have lied
They'll tell you
"Sticks and stones may break your bones but words will never hurt you"
but they won't tell you that the Boogeyman is real
He'll come to your room with words
"Nothing" and
****** and
****** and
******
sharpened like arrows in his quiver
He'll stretch the bow of upper and lower lip
and take aim at your Achilles Heel
because he knows how your mother held you as she baptized you in hope
**** doesn't bruise your arm
or push you down the stairs
or tangle its fingers in your scalp and yank your hair
but it'll slump your shoulders
make a mumble out of your laughter
"Freak" never gave anyone a black eye
but it's hung bodies from the rafters
The grown-ups don't want you to know that the Boogeyman is real
because they're the ones who invented the weapons he wields
They don't want you to know that you're defenseless
if all you've got is a cold-shoulder shield
They don't want to have to tell you that you might have to yield
to a monster they created
You are both so much like me
I can't watch them feed you half-truths and sit here passively
You deserve to know what it is that will haunt you
What it is that haunts me
My bed is not safe either
I still check my closets for words I have suppressed
The grown-ups check theirs too but they're protecting you
They just hide it best
See, you and I
We bleed crayola
because we haven't forgotten what it's like to be a kid
We remember popsicles in summertime
and all the naughty things we did
We remember how to cheat at hide-and-seek
and all the corners in which we hid
I know
that there will be days when the Boogeyman will call you
Nothing
Just remind him that
Nothing is Something
that Something could be Anything
and therefore
you are important.
Smile in his face
and pretend you cannot hear, cannot understand, cannot be hurt
When the arrows take to the air
walk so far away and don't stop until your toes are dangling over the edge of the ocean
and all that lies beneath you is a tunnel of stars
When he finds your Achilles Heel,
tell someone
No use dying in battle
Forgive the grown-ups, for they know not their mistakes
Show them how to handle it
Sleep with the light on
Check your closet
Be prepared
He will come
but if you know your enemy
there's no way you can lose
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 10:01 AM UTC
i have feelings
you have feelings
... we all have feelings!
some feelings stick
other feelings are magical
and some feelings even connect with other feelings
... how magical!
feelings are meant to be shared
like a gigantic 64 pack of crayola, the ones with the fancy sharpener
however, some feelings hurt
like a nail going through the layers of skin, causing blood to pour out
so always, be careful of your feelings
not everyone will share them, or want to be aware of them
feelings can cause misery, and joy
be careful with them!
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
Memories of you will never fade, magnificent seductress and my runaway love.
I've been missing your unforgettable kisses and scented skin after perfumed baths.
Glimpse of you at first light of day, I remember sugary sweet nectar of you lips.
soft lips meant for kissing under moon's glow and that beautiful smile and laugh.
I adored making love to you under dark skies lit by friend pale moon's reflections.
Swish of you skirt close to my face, crumpled shirt leaves little to my imagination.
Shoulders half bare, cheeks flushed many shades of red that no crayola can match.
Watching you and loving that look of heat and passion through half closed eyes.
Holding you close and never letting go in dreams that I've had since meeting you.
You stepped off that curb and fell in my arms that was when I knew love Betty.
You were and will always be a fetching temptress!
Ms. Betty Ponder, I can still make you blush.
Saved that crumpled skirt and it's in a safe place
along with all the Artistic Pictures. : )
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 12:18 PM UTC
The Summer Alphabet of Woman
Every summer, I learn a new language.
Every winter, it departs for warmer climes,
And its charms and naked arms, its own alphabet,
clean forgot.
Multi-lingual in the summer's peculiar
One language, one aleph bet,
But mega-millions of dialects,
Know them all cold, know them all, hot.
I speak Woman.
Summer is soft, shapely, sweet,
Clean, bare, lush in a sparse way,
And Woman is spoken thusly.
There are no harsh sounds,
Guttural exclamations, nein!
I speak Woman.
There is no ugly in the summer.
Ugly being an ugly word.
It cannot exist in an atmosphere of
Sun, greenery, sand, carefree days, vacations, no school.
There are no ugly women in the summer.
I could take this writ many places,
But if you are sputtering sexist or other labeling words,
Could not give a good god **** because in the summer,
There is no ugly, there is no prejudice.
And I still speak
Woman with an almost perfect fluency,
au naturel.
Gym clothes, short shorts, A-line skirts swishing in the breeze,
High, god, so high the heels, flats clip clopping, flip flopping
all over my heart,
But, it is the bare arms and the hints of summer
Cleavage, the short skirts, body hugging one piece fabrics
stretching from here to down there that does not
Hint,
the shoulder strap of the underthings that asks,
that commands me,
to wonder where it leads too...
Even the light wrap at night mocks me,
Like gift wrapping with a smile demure...a teasing blindfold...
All these say:
Write us poetry in our very own tongue,
Woman.
Will oblige.
I curve with curve of the ***** and
invert with S arc of the waist,
Mystifying, how it is the designed place
For my hands to grasp, and never fails.
The crayola colors of flesh variations,
Boggle the senses... How can tan and pale,
Dark and Light
Have so many
Symphonic variations?
Adagio, slow and leisurely, a pas de deux
For two eyes, then a
Timpani crash and thunder, as
Byron wrote,
"music arose with its voluptuous swell,"
Yes, swell...swell...swell
Enough.
My eloquence, no match for my
Fluency.
Late August, and my vocabulary is already
Diminishing.
I forget how to say in
Woman
*Without you I am nothing,
With you, I am more than everything,*
Tho I can no longer say it,
It is is still true and
Beyond belief.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
*** 101
by Michael R. Burch
That day the late spring heat
steamed through the windows of a Crayola-yellow schoolbus
crawling its way up the backwards slopes
of Nowheresville, North Carolina ...
Where we sat exhausted
from the day’s skulldrudgery
and the unexpected waves of muggy,
summer-like humidity ...
Giggly first graders sat two abreast
behind senior high students
sprouting their first sparse beards,
their implausible bosoms, their stranger affections ...
The most unlikely coupling―
Lambert, 18, the only college prospect
on the varsity basketball team,
the proverbial talldarkhandsome
swashbuckling cocksman, grinning ...
Beside him, Wanda, 13,
bespectacled, in her primproper attire
and pigtails, staring up at him,
fawneyed, disbelieving ...
And as the bus filled with the improbable musk of her,
as she twitched impaled on his finger
like a dead frog jarred to life by electrodes,
I knew ...
that love is a forlorn enterprise,
that I would never understand it.
Keywords/Tags: first, love, *** lust, passion, desire, school, bus, foreplay, ********* odor, musk
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 4:29 AM UTC
When people ask me about my first love,
I remember the smell of melted crayons.
Not your smile, your golden skin, or the way your face would wrinkle in deep thought.
But about the carelessness of a child in your backseat,
And how with help from the sun,
your car was forever perfumed by a melted, purple Crayola.
I grew to love this scent.
It's an odd thing to even say aloud now.
However, it's permanently imprinted in my mind.
Over summers spent in your car and nights staring into your eyes,
I grew infatuated with this waxy, sweet aroma that filled the air between us.
It became your cologne that stayed with my clothes while you were away,
My comfort when you were near.
It was never sickening or invasive,
But desired and wanted.
So when people ask me about my first love,
I tell them about this boy who always smelled of crayons and how much I miss him.
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 6:36 AM UTC
The worse thing I could see in this life to me
is the insight on what's going on inside the
mind of another person whose eyes when
tested are wide open yet half closed an
glazed fixed with a message
No rest
**** bested
Just like me with a feeling that's overrated
I'm never waking cause your never sleeping
Yeah that's what we call self medicated
Drug dedicated
To ****** up to hate it
Even when your looking into the eyes of another behind a two way mirror that's not so two way
I'm faceless
A psychopath unlike the rest
So let me color this
Wait did you say something
Whos there
No one It's just you
Then whos looking back
Just yourself
That doesn't look like me
Why because they walk talk and dress different
No because I'm here and their there
A fact created by self absorbed ******** who believe to have made it
A bunch of fakes spitting venomous lies deceit filled eyes
Stabbing the backs of friends and foes alike
believing to be justified with what it is they
do
So don't you even begin to believe that
**** too
Now count to blue and remember there's been to few of us created with two sets of eyes so different yet their look is self imitated
Originality being one oh one over one duplicated known to be unrelated
Something I see each time I see my reflection so you're the worst thing I could see along
with this ****** up connection
Now don't get me wrong it’s amazing how we in no way tried to be found found each other
But I don't know if i’m ready for the inside tour of another just like me but uncovered
A psychopathic lover
And as I begin to laugh I hope like me you won't quit because if your like me we're
made for this wicked ****
I'm ****** glitch
Broke like a *****
Why am I so lyrically rich
That being said I gotta say I'm happy that **** so far has stayed where it belongs tucked away unlike this song
Inside my mind with the imagination creations I've created in my crayola crayon nation made education
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 1:13 PM UTC
My favorite color is yellow.
I doesn't seem like it by the looks of me, I know.
I'm all dark everything now
Dark sunglasses, dark hair
Dark clothes, trussed up, a rockstar late for her own concert
No kidding even my heart is black
black as the cold night's deepest obsidian
My mother insists it is yellow, though
She remembers me: I was five
little, skinny kid with pale skin and a large head
The first color I go to is yellow
Big old box of crayola jumbos with the eight colors
The crayon mighty meaty; huge in my little hand
In that big old box
Yellow was the shortest crayon stick
give me sunshine, lil baby.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
When I was little
I read Goodnight moon every night.
And I'd goodnight kiss my bed.
And my door.
And my rocking chair.
And the floor.
And then I'd set up four little stuffed animal guards,
Back to back,
To watch the four walls of my room.
So that all the demons couldn't get to me.
They were my troops.
If I closed my eyes,
The ceiling was made of raindrops,
Frozen still.
But they weren't cold.
If I layed flat on my back,
I could hear the sound of my guards talking.
Mutiny they said.
They were going to over throw me.
They had secretly been the demons the whole time.
Those sneaky little ********
So I crushed them under the weight of my toys,
That very second.
And the next day I pierced all their ears with a bidazler.
And I drew them tattoos.
I made them the thugs they wanted to be.
They didn't like it.
Repented for their sins.
But I used no crayola.
Punishment is a sharpie,
I had told them that before.
And that was the night I realized
I'm so much stronger than the demons.
I do not need a guard.
Goodnight moon.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 12:07 AM UTC