• I draw a flower and color it in.
    Then I hand it to the teacher,
    Hoping to see if she will be pleased and grin.
    But no, like always, again and again, she frowns and begins to talk like a preacher.
    She explains the proper strokes and textures I should ply,
    Though again and again, I fail and I try.
    So once more, she tells me what to do,
    Shaming me for playing unruly with the tool.

    I scream in my mind and sniffle my unshed tears.
    With my crayon in my hand, my palm begins to sweat.
    It’s been so long! I’ve tried and tried! And yet I can’t do what the others can!
    I feel a burn as the wax sticks to my hand.
    And then the black crayon falls to the floor as it cracks in two.
    I clench my teeth and storm back to my seat.
    Why can’t I just be like the rest?

    I’m laughing now as I recall my memories.
    How young I was. - How silly and immature.
    Here I am. I’ve gotten far enough. Without any of those smiles from my teacher,
    Or pats on the backs, or medal awards.
    Here I am. I’ve gotten far, very far in fact.
    I color out of the lines with happiness and glee.
    I am different, I am special. Come, join me.

    And let us both color outside the lines.