She Colors Her World With Crayons

A box of sixty-four spilled out onto the floor.

As she reaches for a crayola gold.

She feels as though someone stole her very soul.

As she colors her world with crayons once again.

Seeing her reflection in a nearby stream.

Wondering what happened to her hopes and her dreams.

In her bipolar world she still does not understand.

As she reaches for a crayola black.

There is no turning back.

 

The reflection she saw was me.

So much like her mother.

Though she resembles her father.

My beautiful daughter for whom I wrote this poem.

Lost forever in the turbulent storm at "The Writer's Cafe."

 

Reviews

[Christopher 'Windstorm'..]

beautiful

[Brenda Sue]

Oh I love this, it is a wonderful poem. Beautifully penned. Excellent job.