Crayons

I used to color with crayons because I didn’t know how to write.
I used to draw my dreams and think these wax etchings were all the world was missing.
Where there wasn’t love I drew red hearts, the sun was captured with yellow crayon,
And I could make a spring day blossom in the middle of winter.

I grew up.
I learned to write.

I struggled to carve out the simple strokes of my name in pencil.
Words written in grey graphite supplanted the crayon drawings I was once so proud of.
I wrote letters, I wrote words, I wrote sentences and stories, and I was proud.
And I threw away those primitive drawings, ashamed that I ever took pride in them.

I grew up.

I read the words, the sentences, the stories, and the poems I had written and I hated them.
I wanted to rip them apart, tear them to pieces, never see them again.

I left them in the rain.

The rain washed away the ink, disintegrated the paper, and my shame came dripping off.
I didn’t understand how I could ever be so proud of those simple words.

I grew up.

I drew more pictures and tore them up.
I wrote more words and left them to crumble in the rain.

I drew and I destroyed,
I wrote and I ripped,
And the rain always came,
And I lost the sun, and the spring, and the love,
And I wanted to go back to those simple days
When I could be God with a box of crayons.