Crayons, Hands, and Crucifixion

July 10, 2013

I want to talk about crayons

solid, opaque sticks of wax

the kind your parents tell you not to use as a snack

when you're four, and the colors looks so good you need to try them to be sure

and then you spit it out, feel the flecks of color stick to your tongue and-

"I told you not to put that in your god damn mouth!"

And from then on they're used as tools

smeared on paper, scraped onto the halls

making masterpieces that hang from shaky tacks like theyre crucified on your walls

You stand back and look at then,

admire the chaos because it's yours

take pride in the flaking colored wax and-

you can't seem to find fault in it

I want to talk about hands

and how deceptive they are,

you're born with two and half the time ones doesn't know it could grab hold of a Hershey's bar

And hands hold crayons,

wrapping that wax in chubby fingers,

smearing that opaque stick onto white paper

when you're four, and those crucified pictures on the wall are no less than perfect

But when hands grow up they're decievers,

you blame them for imperfections in your paper,

in your drawings, where that anime girls eye is too far left from the other

and that leg looks like a snapped popsicle stick the way it can't fit in the corner

You're not good enough for the wall,

those micro-scopic puncture wounds embedded into the paint where you hung your crooked colored stars-

like a constant reminder that you're not up to part

a continoue whisper that your four year old self was nailing blasphemy to the alter

and that even now you can't find your art anymore righteous and worh the ceremony

like every creative thing you can muster is only hell-ridden testimony

And you're sick and tired of feeling worthless, uninspired, sinful-

and crayons are what you use to nail our palms to the wall, so you bleed colors-

bright red and yellow, blue and smothering purples

and when your parents enter they look at the wall,

see the blood, smell the death

note the way all that crimson has stained your nails, your hair, your dress

then shake their heads in aspiration and scold you-

"We told you not to make a mess"

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