Broken crayon
grimy orange,
Smudges of
dirt, of love,
of hope of angst.
Smooth, waxed
long-ago childish
dreams.
Colourful, vibrant
(now dulled)
memories of
candy-luminous
clouds and infantile
simplicity.
Broken dreams.
Or a broken
red crayon,
angry
and lying forgotten
on the cold
hard, grey floor.
Good poem. Sad but good. Everyone starts out as a child full of the colorful bright hope of Crayon dreams, and then for some the crayons are broken and forgotten as is childhood and hope.
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? this is the same poem no? I thought I had commented before? well it's the same? good one? ?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I really love this poem. We all get caged into the reality of adulthood.