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
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.