Life is like a box of crayons.

Some people are pink, with lots to spare, bright and bubbly with no cares.

A few are red, with hot anger bright, enough to light the darkest night. 

Others are yellow, happy and smiling, like the sunshine, warm and kindly.

While some are white, they feel unseen, wondering what their life could mean.

Still more are purple, the sweet and mild, the quiet soul, the peaceful child.

One might be black, hard and dark, the coal before the fires spark.

They could be green, as nature’s friend, serene and happy to no end.

At any moment, at any time, your crayon could break, and you would find, 

Now you’re lost, don’t know what to do, how can you color, without being you? 

Maybe all you can do, just know that broken crayons color, hold on and push through.

Because broken crayons are as perfect, as sweet, maybe better than others can be. 

Because even through their cracks and tears, they face the truth, their hurt and fears,

Life is like a box of crayons, with some trying to mend, but we are all loved in the end.