Crayons Poem by Maclene Marcaida

The sharp odor of wax
lingers on my skin.
Various tinges depending
on what this kid is feeling.
Summer balls.
Falls of Fall.
Grapes are all in shape.
Well, what more can I say?

I feel brisky in your every
sway for clouds. The lines,
the curves, they seem alive
when you paint them on
people's faces. Brittle texture,
the surface isn't secure.
Draw rain to-and-fro
top to bottom rigidly,
do not use blue, gray instead.
Sketch an umbrella
Protect Cinderella.

When all things seem to
get worse, if the world has
nothing to toss other than
a curse, I always remember

if not because of your
crayons, I'd be plain; prosaic.
Press your thumb marks on me,
drag the colors like pastel,
I don't care if it might hurt a little.
Allow the featherlight
weight of your hands
spur on me. At the middle,
Center of second quadrant
scribble your name.
That's how I feel used,
used in a way I am loved.
Show me your passion,
show me your fingernails
after you crayon,
then, I'd say I lived my purpose.