Broken Crayons

I’ve written this poem for a friend who was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and Depression. I still remember the look on her face when she read it. It’ll stay with me forever. Since then, I have shared this poem with a lot of people. I leave no chance to share it with anyone who’s feeling low. I hope someday I’ll be known for bringing therapeutic peace through my poems.

When I tell you I have tasted colors

I mean that I have literally chewed my purple crayon.

Not that I have gulped it and begged people to love me because I am colorful.

Or have I?

My, two-year-old, sister childishly threw an old, broken crayon away.

“It’s broken. I don’t want broken.” She chimed.

I looked at her, into her eyes and said,

“Sweetie, broken crayons can color too.”

She held the small piece in her small hands and marked a stroke.

Her eyes twinkled as if her stroke was a shooting star.

I guess I am taking it too far

but people don’t know

that broken was once whole too.

And you know, I have been told that

Broken could be taped carefully and held firmly.

Broken could be glued nicely and handled right.

Broken could be played good songs and hugged tight.

Broken could be made coffee and cuddled dearly.

Because broken isn’t dead.

And now I mint broken crayons and broken markers

Just like I mint anxious morons and depressed suckers.

I look at them like my shooting stars.

I send them memes and hug them right.

I roll my eyes and slip a smile.

I melt broken crayons and shape new hopes.

I use frozen words and mould them into poems.

Because the shooting stars broke out of the sky too.

So, hey! Feel free to join me for dinner tonight.

I hope you will love the crayon- yellow bright.

Or will you?

By Anshita Singh

Anshita is a first-year psychology student. She loves to write poems and is studying to become a mental health professional.

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