Poems for a Rainy Day

Crayon

I'm made of wax, molded in a factory. The wax of my soul poured into a unique and special mold.

I am wrapped in delicate paper by the hand of God, and given a label, a name for which I am to wear for my whole life.

I am packaged in a box, a box of love and compassion, filled with other crayons who will be my closest companions. The ones who I will call family

God gives me a purpose: to paint my own picture. To draw out my own future with my waxy, pink tip.

When I first come out of my box, I am perfect: shiny, new, smooth, immaculate. But, the older a crayon gets, the more worn it becomes. The tip starts to chip with age. Sometimes, you color so hard that the crayon splits in half. too hard. Crayons are delicate and I am a crayon.

My paper covering starts to tear, my identity growing blurry. But, I set out in search of who I really  am. 

I learn to live confidently without my paper covering; open to the world and all it has to offer. I am no longer innocent and naive. The more I write and draw of my future the more worn my tip becomes.

God knew that I would chip and crack, so he helps me. His love and guidance melts me and allows my wax to reform. He heals my brokenness.

Throughout life, you will meet other crayons of all colors of the rainbow and beyond. Some will blend with your hue perfectly and others, well, some colors just don't blend. By the end of your life, you will become a melting pot of colors, rubbed off on you by all of the people you have met and the knowledge you have gained. And, though crayons may be delicate, they can also be hard, and strong.

How fast you break just depends on what hand is holding you.