When I was probably five or six,
And loved filling colours into boat and ships.
My crayons would break sometimes,
Mum would always insist to colour with that broken thing.
She had this weird philosophy, that 'broken crayons could still colour'
I never liked the idea though
Of filling my violet grapes with those broken bits.
But they would always colour fine,
Earning me a star for a clear-cut finishing.
Now when I remember,
I wonder why my mum had told me this,
Crayons those were smashed and crushed into dirt,
Bending themselves into the strength of callous fingers
How could they colour the same?
Like every new, unbroken crayon in the holder.
they never coloured the same,
When they had so very fine sharp edges
I think, they coloured more better,
These broken crayons, could not only colour,
They coloured much more better.

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Dated: 5/March/2020

Your's truly,
Zainab ✍️