This poem needs no explanation. It was written almost twenty years ago and has not seen the light of day as it has been kept in my files all this time. It is a relevant one I feel…just as it was when it was written back in 1998. It is a common story, more common than we want to admit. It is probably one of the saddest and realistic poems I have ever written. I do not wonder where this “broken crayon” is now. On any given day in our streets, in a store or at a movie theater, “broken crayons” are everywhere…
Perfect father, paint-brushed mother,
living in a palette of water-colored dreams
diluted by lost expectations, assumed possibilities,
ignore muffled sobs
within the imperfect child they left
to flourish beneath the guise of contentment.
The carefree boy leaves scribbles on a wall
next to the closed kitchen door.
The angry teen leaves muddy footprints
on polished hardwood floors;
resolves to shatter the whitewashed mask,
covering up a proper upbringing.
He shrugs between the spoken and the unsaid,
suppressing reasons why he’s flawed.
Crying in a tunnel of his own fabrication,
he sits cross-legged on shards
of broken crayons.
Le petit lapin espiègle à la veste bleue vous a toujours séduit par ses facéties et vous souhaitez en savoir plus sur celle qui lui a donné vie, ce blog vous ouvre la porte du monde fascinant de Beatrix Potter
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An Empyrean Cycle
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