My Crayon Box

It comes in waves, 

Elation, 

Apathy, 

All mixed up like a box of old crayons. 

Nubs here of primary blue, 

There of canary yellow, 

It spilled. 

And as it came crashing, 

A release,

Myriad of thoughts. 

Pawns for the ultimate goal of self immolation. 

I collect each stick one at a time, 

Placing it back in my box,

Counting them as the colors blur, 

Royal purple to baby blue, 

White like paper, red like shoes. 

Time rewinds and it happens again.  

Each day a little different than the next.

The show is always on,

Finger acrobatics. 

The beginning has no end, 

The end has no beginning.  

Where will it lead?

Today,

Moving like a high speed train.  

Tyrannical colors, 

Black like black,

Red like red, 

Clawing, 

Ripping all to shreds.

Tears of passion, 

Tears of love, 

Tears of guilt. 

Tomorrow, 

Blue like the ocean, 

Blue like thoughts caught on a breeze, 

Blue like raspberry Jolly Ranchers, 

Turquoise blue, 

Primary blue, 

Simply blue. 

I’m still here as years seem to pass. 

They want to help me with my crayon box,

I tell them to place them in one at a time. 

The blues with blues, 

Blacks with reds,

Yellows with oranges, 

Pinks with blues,

It was always blue. 

So blue. 

I can only remember when its blue, 

So blue. 

I can only feel when its blue, 

So blue. 

The only color I ever see, 

Is Blue. 

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