I can’t throw out a crayon

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I can’t throw out a crayon

Even if it’s broken.

As long as there’s still color,

I see its dreams, unspoken.

I can’t toss out a crayon

Though it’s smashed like a mallet.

I still see the potential

Of each tiny little palette.

I can’t let go of crayons —

Their waxy feeling harkens,

back to early etchings —

My envy of the sharpener.

Each crayon has a purpose

Much more than just a mess.

So whether 12 or 64,

I’ll never quit my quest.

Those little Lego bastards, though,

They are not granted such respite

And when caught in my vacuum, thus,

 — They might go missing for a bit.