Digging up feelings for a non living thing.

All the other things breathe,

All the other things speak.


There are quite a few,

A few millions.

Which can neither talk,

Nor think.

I highly doubt if they can think.


I’ve always been amazed at my crayons,

The colours in them.


How they shout out “colour me next”

And I’m always topsy and turvy

Between cherry red and the lemon zest.


I clench the coloured wax,

Wrapping between my fingers.

Placing it onto my deserted

Futile depiction;

And overfill the picture,

With stains of berry blue,

And raspberry maroon.


The pint-sized crayon,

Which availed me to

Fill my sketches and life,

With hues of different emotions

Whole day,

Or in the middle of the night.


This one’s to them,

To the exceptional tiny

Pastels from the

Lower shelf of the retail store.


You’ve given me colours,

Taught me the best,


I mould your molten wax

Into prompts;

And form poetry.

Amtul Hajra

un-optimistic, Poet, and a friend to many.


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