I once embraced this world

sharp and pointed.

My prestige label covered me.

I was the fresh wax scent

of a brand new box.

When you took me out

I engaged with paper

like butter does to bread.

That’s me a precise colorization,

my known popularity.

I’m #000000 Black inside

16, 24, 32, and 64 count boxes.

Crayola, never RoseArt or Cra-Z-Art

imitations.

I’m the real deal.

The eminence of the coloring world.

You can’t color without me.

 

Then, my point got broken

flat-headed I still filled in and drawed.

Eventually I ended up on a preschool

classroom floor where I was ripped

naked of my grey wrapper,
stepped on, and broken.

I ended up in brokenness

of a broken crayon drawer.

Melted I blended in with a few friends

of shades no one ever gave us any names for.

Now I sit with other crayons and candles remains.

A far cry from Easton, Pennsylvania

the Crayola Factory I was made.