I put together all the colours,
In the picture I had drawn.
The only shade that I left behind,
Was the unused white crayon.
As I filled page after page with hues,
Stuffed crayons into pockets of my jacket.
The white one remained intact, useless,
Always packed away inside the packet.
For every stroke it made was invisible,
Against the pearl-white of my sheets,
And a person who prefers black paper,
Is rare that someone meets.
Today, as I stand on the sidelines,
Watching the world; forgotten, alone.
I wonder if in all the years,
I've turned into a white crayon.
.
.
.
A/N: God, I cried writing this poem. What? Don't look at me like that, I was an emotional mess!
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Half a Sky {Poetry}
PoesíaYou probably are wondering why I named this book Half a Sky. Well, imagine a person having half a sky hanging over them. What words would you use to describe them? Weird? Freakish? Odd? So, this is to all the people who have been described with tho...
