Our Crayola Life Poem by Francie Lynch

With the box lid closed
It's dark inside,
There are no colours
We can't abide.
But a golden sliver of light seeps in,
To expose the colours there within.
We see red when in a rage,
And scarlet dancers crowd our stage;
A red-blooded male brags virility
Through rose-coloured glasses of masculinity.
Some grow green with envy,
Reveal they're yellow in enmity,
Are blue when feeling empathy,
Turn blue holding out for sympathy,
Are tickled pink with comedy,
And white as a sheet with tragedy,
Or brown-nosed with syncophany.
If your yellow-bellied you may run,
And green round the gills after too much rum,
Write purple prose when versifying,
And usually off colour when you're dying.
True colours show outside the box,
Use grey matter to colour
Your world unorthodox.
Our true colours are harlequin,
That fade to black at our end.