I color the shape in,
Like bruises on my skin,
I turn the page red,
Like the blood that spilled out when I bled .
I paint the sky blue,
Like the tears that escape my eyes upon the broken adieu,
I make the land green,
Like the last traces of life in me ever seen.
I color the flowers purple,
Like my habit of clinging to the past like a myrtle ,
I add little splashes of yellow,
Like the last time my voice was heard; an echo.
I make a river but it is stained with red,
Like my eternally lingering sense of dread,
I turn the sky from blue to the color of an onyx,
Like how my state of mind has become one for the lunatics.
I take a look around and see that everything I\'ve made is rotting and decaying,
I can only stand by and see as my world starts fading,
But after all, broken crayons still color,
The ruination may be inevitable, but atleast the air is familiar.