Tattered, torn, pathetic.
A once noble box now worn from age, not high usage.
A box that at some point captured every refraction of light in the spectrum from loving someone and you can't tell why to falling into leaves in the brisk autumn weather.
When that box was your prized possession, that you would without hesitation display for all to see. To those who were interested, or didn't give it a second thought.
Back then in the box, sky blue, blue green, blue violet, navy blue, midnight blue, blue bell, and blue berry all represented a unique thought or feeling.
Armed with your box, you couldn't draw like Van Gogh. But I'd rather look at your art than his.
Even though everyone told you that you couldn't draw, or were drawing incorrectly.
That wasn't important, because with your box, and your 150 different colors drew a beautiful paved road to travel on, though the colors were drawn a little outside the lines.
But you liked it that way.
Though it didn't stay like that for long.
The lines took priority above everything and you began to draw like everyone else.
Your pictures hung on empty frames for the blind to enjoy.
I felt right to criticize, you had used the three colors you were most comfortable with. After some time, even the lines began to become bland.
One day, you approached me, and asked me where my box had been the last few years.
I couldn't reply properly. I was taken aback.
I was so obsessed with finding faults with the color usage and the tasteless frames of others I neglected my own expression.
Cobwebs don't look well on a box of crayons, as I found out.
I couldn't face you. I had forgotten how to even draw in the lines. I forgot how to hold a crayon. To just doodle and be simple.
What you said to me, and what all of this did, I can't figure it out, but it made me feel.....
-Insolence is Bliss