Crayon Box Dreams
As a child, colors weave the way I dream,
Then what I feel and how I perceive.
My humming voice a dandelion stream.
Carnation pink, fairytales I used to believe.
As I grow my color palette shifts,
From rainbow of softness to only neutral gray.
I wear black heels, prepare neon gifts
For dinner parties I have to stay.
Sometimes I remember, how colors linger,
How my fingers once, on paper, dragged out hue.
It smears my dream in orange and lavender,
My crayon box, the only thing staying true.
I know my paintings inevitably go unseen,
Still, every night, I color my dream spring green.
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