When the broken crayons do color. ..

I am young and enthusiastic about life, don’t blame me if I try to rush along. I don’t want to be the the uncle who lives in the basement,  i can’t be the roast of thanksgiving.

I know you have seen it all, I am wrong, I accept,  but you know my ego is as big as my dreams. I am burdened in zeal to impress, wits end to no end, all you say is I am proud. In trying to tame this stallion don’t trample on budding hope.

Fine! I didn’t listen, i heard, least that’s what I said. I have finally seen what you refused to explain. Barring me against the tide without an anchor, i will surely go with the wind.

I am born to be curious,  I am always on the move, an indigo child can’t be stopped. We are the cats that got too curious, luckily we have nine lives. I am back, but this pot is no more than an imperfect mold. I can’t hold the volumes you expect of me.

When children leave their bags on the playing field, you don’t expect perfect crayons. So when these broken crayons do finally color look beyond the smudges and seek the truth.

What’s the beauty you behold?

What do you make of the dreams I have made for myself?

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