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Crayon
Sometimes I feel as pointless as a white crayon in a white room, lying on a white desk with stacks of white paper. No matter how hard I try to leave a mark it goes unseen by the world. I know i put it there. I know I beared down hard, but I'm left with no impression. It's frustrating, and i press harder onto A milky canvas of flesh that won't bruise. Colorless drops of blood that wont smear. Snowy ash that won't smudge. I've pressed with so much force so persistently that the tip is long gone and the paper is peeling away. A shortening existence, i keep struggling to impact the perfection around me knowing my lines will never be seen. I've been waiting my whole life for someone to walk into this sickly sterile room with their raven paper, sit down at the unpigmented desk, and save me.
