Uncle tells me to look after the twins
Again.
"They want to draw," he says.
"But we forgot our markers.
Could you lend us yours?"
I cringe. I shudder. I sigh. I groan.
My stomach churns and my heart slows with dread.
The twins never took care of my markers.
They were too forceful, too careless,
And their art was never elegant.
It was a scrawled mass of
Lines without direction.
And the worst: they always used
My coloured markers
Until they had no ink.
But Uncle pleads me again.
He needs them to do something
Other than staring at the iPad.
So I lend them my markers,
Watching them gloomily and grudgingly.
They squeal at the colours and shapes,
Their eyes are focused as they fill in
The gaps.
They hold up their work of sloppily drawn houses
And disfigured people proudly.
I teach them how to draw cars and butterflies and penguins.
The afternoon flies by and they have
Learnt the wonders of colours.
This is why
I will always lend them my markers.
Because my markers
Are what will transport them to another dimension,
A galaxy where their imagination runs wild,
And the colours are bubbles of dreams
They chase.
With my markers, they build their worlds.
A house, a car, a robot, a butterfly.
Technology is the platform for them to look,
But my markers are what makes them see.
YOU ARE READING
Mind Over Matter - What I Never Said
PoetryHere's a collection Of prose and (try-hard) poetry That contains all the things I never said. I hope the wind, the internet, or whatever Will carry my words to you Someday. (SLOW AND RANDOM UPDATES) - copyright ChristineLLY 2018
