The Colors of the Crayon Box

When I was just a little girl, and my head all full of frizzy curl, I would sit outside with my box of crayons and draw as the flowers around me would unfurl.

Being an artist was that little girls dream and desire, one she was so sure she could easily acquire.

Using every color in the box,

yes even that gray to color the rocks.

My love for color grew and grew,

With my favorite color being robin’s egg blue.

Sea green for the ocean in its perpetual motion.

There was even a crayon named “wild strawberry red”,

at least that was what the label had said.

My mother’s favorite color was purple, but that color wasn’t universal…

Which shade was it mum?

The one called “plum”?

Did “purple wisteria” meet your criteria?

“Violet” or “ blue violet”?

There was even one called “purple mountains majesty,

So many shades of purple it was insanity!

As I got older my mood turned increasingly blue as my small hometown had a habit of making me frown.

I used the color apricot to color my skin,

just like all the rest of the towns kin.

The difference was I was born with hair that insisted to grow,

all frizzy and fuzzy prompting them to nickname me “fro”.

At this torment I tried really hard to brush it off and just go with the flow,

but the taunts and teasing just continued to grow.

The last straw was when one day,

they taped a tampon to my locker and wrote a bad name I then summoned karma to make them all pay.

I started to experiment with coloring my hair and started with brown,

but then they all called me a clown.

Next I tried red,

well you could just imagine what they said….

One day I tried blonde,

which turned out to be the color I was most fond.

One day in art class, 9/11/2001 to be exact I stared in horror,

as the TVs all tuned to the news of the twin towers.

The sadness and blackness I felt was so overwhelming,

it completely made me forget art and even made it repelling.

Many many years later,

my soulmate woke me up and showed me life could be greater.

Pulling me from the darkness of that small town,

saving me just in time as it felt like I was about to drown .

Slowly the color returned to my life,

as we moved far away from that small town so full of strife.

As I sit here today writing this poem my beautiful son sits beside me with his own box of crayons,

I watch him and smile as he plays on.

I am thankful for everything and have no regrets as I am me,

and all the colors of the rainbow is what I will continue to be.