Colors

Once, a wee little toddler of 3

Was taught colors. 

Her momma told her which is which 

And her papa grabbed toys, 

So both of them could watch their daughter

Stumbling over the words and squeaking in joy 

When she matched the right color to the right toy. 

Once, an overenthusiastic child of 7 

Was coloring while her imaginary friend crowned her as an Artist. 

Her sisters blabbered incoherent gibberish

And were ignorant of the world that coddled them, 

Yet they both gravitated toward this alluring concept, 

One of crayons, color pencils, paint, 

And shading out of the lines. 

Once, an indecisive girl of 10 

Was decorating a mug for her birthday,

Her friends were sitting around her. 

They were sharing laughter and making memories, 

All thanks to the squirts of colors 

That lay on messy pallets, 

Each providing more and more vibrancy to the white mug and her life. 

Once, a growing adolescent of 12

Was watching her sisters put brush to paper for the first time

While she herself started using a pen instead. 

She took off the crown knowing that something changed, 

That colors simply didn't call out to her anymore, 

Certainly not as much as words, 

So though she knew color was everywhere, she was no longer a part of it. 

Once, a maturing teen of 13

Was walking in the store with her family 

And came across a paint splattered canvas. 

Her momma asked what was so special about random splashes

And her papa joked about it and moved on, 

But the girl, 

Well she stopped where she stood and just looked. 

Once, a self- discovering woman of 14

Was thinking back on that picture

And the way her eyes widened when it spoke to her. 

Every individual color whispered their secrets to her, 

And it was as if she had finally found a poisonous fruit that 

Sung in sweetness, sourness, bitterness, 

And spice for her, and only her. 

Once, an artist just shy of 15 

Was struck with the realization that the canvas was more than just spatters, it was a lore, 

And it wasn't paint that was used, it was a bleeding soul. 

The meadow of fresh happiness and enduring power, 

The sunset of chaotic confusion and crashing anger, 

The peaceful pool of serenity and foams of sorrow that froth at the shore, 

All tied together with the splatters of lethal conviction that wrap this masterpiece as one harmonious entity. 

Once, a girl who's age brought her understanding 

Was pleased to put her crown back on 

This time with her own confidence, not her invisible friend's. 

She looked at her hand, an artist's hand,  

Acknowledging that though those nimble fingers may not color anymore, 

They most certainly paint magnificent pictures with words she toys with 

And write passionate stories for overlooked paintings that need their story to be told.