The Tank
The mint-painted walls peel
And flower with Expo marker
Like fish we flood the hallways
Schools of puny power
The tank runs out of oxygen
And we float up for gasps of air
But gills are meant for water
The Crayon
A crayon rolls under the cabinet
And rests with dust and mice,
Forgotten yet always there.
No one looks for it;
Only mice and time nibble on the paper.
The crayon wishes it was useful.
A crayon melts on the windowsill,
Giving in to the heat.
It leaves a mess, and
Everyone is exhausted.
The crayon’s tears drip to the ground.
Hot wax stains the carpet.
A crayon is broken in half—
You worked it too hard.
The wrapping paper doesn’t rip all the way;
The halves dangle, waiting to fall apart.
It’s the crayon’s fault, you say.
They should’ve made it stronger.
A crayon glides across the wallpaper,
Smearing and leaving its mark.
The colors look so vibrant on the white,
And I realize it was meant to be.
Behind us, Mom sighs,
But it’s like the Arctic has flowered.
Olivia Park is a high school student who loves poetry. Olivia has been recognized in school literary magazines and local competitions. When not writing, she finds inspiration in art, music, and nature.
Featured image by Benigno Hoyuela.
