Lament of a White Crayon by D. A. Rogers
A simple box of crayons can bring so much joy.
A childhood rite of passage for every girl and boy.
So, as a white crayon with my encroaching obsolescence,
I’ll tell you of my friends’ treatment at the hands of adolescents.
There was poor Violet whose end was quite violent.
Snapped in a tot’s monstrous grip.
Then there was Yellow, the unfortunate fellow.
A child chipped off his tip.
Flying through the air, soared Orange like a rocket,
Who then landed in Julie’s hair.
So obscene, poor Green–stuck in Bobby’s back pocket,
Was crushed by the boy’s derrière.
Now displaced, there’s been not a trace,
Of the lovely miss Aquamarine.
For she rolled beneath the bookcase,
And hasn’t since been seen.
Left on the burning radiator, Black melted into a pool.
A casualty of the underfunded art program at this school.
Oh, how my friends pray that they can return to the crayon tub.
To be resigned survivors slowly worn down into a nub.
For up a nose went Rose. On the floor, bled out Red.
Yet what happened next will haunt me ‘til I’m dead.
The fate of the others left me in sickened awe.
The sight of technicolored drool leaking from a toddler’s maw.
Left to mourn them is me, a crayon white as bleach.
Useless and neglected because there’s no one here to teach
That my purpose is to blend. Oh, the vast artistic application.
No, instead children move on to markers–much to my ceaseless aggravation.
Onwards from there they graduate to colored pencils and pastel.
Who know being a crayon is an existence of pure hell?