A Box Filled with Broken Crayons Speaks

I am the keeper of the broken crayons which are ignored and unused.

The thick ones, thin ones, long ones, short ones, the partially wrapped, and naked ones too.
Their names and purpose were given to them at a time long before.
They were pulled from like colors, boxed with others, and packaged for the stores.

I am the keeper of the broken crayons, each one special in its own way.
I love them, and I guard them, until their appointed day.
A day when they shall once again feel the warmth of a non-discriminant hand.
And experience the joy of the young and old who’ll use them in their plan.

I am the keeper of the broken crayons that have drawn marvelous masterpieces.
Placed in frames, hung on walls, and centered on deep freezers.
The sheer delight that the crayons feel when they’re admired and on center stage,
Can in no way compare to their deep, deep despair when they’re purposely tossed away.

I am the keeper of the broken crayons of which most see no value.
The reds are still a vivid red, and the others are still vivid too.
Although my broken ones look much different, their purpose is no less.
The only difference between them and the others is the broken ones’ new address.

I am the keeper of the broken crayon; their purpose is unchanged.
They were created to transform blank canvases into art, despite the artist’s age.
These broken crayons that I love so much lie in waiting just for you.
Daily they scream from inside of my box, “broken crayons can still color too!”