Crayons
Eric Burnett Ė 1997/1998


Gazing out from high atop my stool upon the sea of faces
Lies the bodies of both my enemies and my fans
A perfect combination of spirits and races
All squished together like a box of multicolored crayons

Some tune in to my every word and thought
Others jerk from alarm when I put them on the spot
The child set apart wraps himself up in his little world
We all make predictions on how his life will unfurl

One girlís mane changed from wood to fire
Now the others green with envy hover during break and conspire
If only she knew beauty comes from within
Maybe she could be satisfied with all the qualites she embodies

And then from my perch I notice the boy
Lacking athletic ability he has resorted to trying to annoy
Trying at length to put up an air of brute strength
With pity we chuckle knowing his true self
Could not defeat the feeble power of an elf

Who could forget the youth in happy land
A place created for those who find they canít stand
To labor through literary devices and grammar
Instead trek to the island of Nintendo and Sega Saturn

And what about the girl who faces me with her scrunchy
Mocking me with jagged smiles and rolled eyes silently
My ego pushes to accept that she wishes to despise
Not just my lesson, but everything I comprise

Iíve been told each crayon is born into the world crisp, sharp and flawless
So then what happened to these miracles that were once obviously blessed?
Were they abused by their owners or broken through too much pressure?
With whom can the blame be put?  How can I even measure?

Sometimes I wonder what is the worse fate
To be worn, ripped, snapped or bruised
Or to lie solitary in the corner never used
And who can predict the impact of never a mate?
Do these crayons mind if they never see their worth
But instead question their existence or even their birth?

With all these questions how can I avoid the sting?
So many problems, so much stuff and things
Sometimes I wonder if I desire an unsoiled box
Not tattered or hardened by the school of hard knocks
But then I realize the pleasure I find
Comes not from what I start with, but from what I leave behind