Oh the white crayons,
the outcasts in a box filled with rainbows.
How it must feel to be forgotten.

But they should not despair,
for this leaves them the sharpest,
and readily awaiting their destinies.

Long they sit and sigh in the shadow of their own fears,
struggling to survive in the cage of conformity.
Even they see in more than just black and white.

If only they knew,
that some people prefer black paper.
If only they remembered that to some they are not just a shade

To some they color the Angels that make up their dreams
and fill the clouds that help them fly.
Without the white crayons, the holes in our drawings are empty

Oh the white crayons