He draws in crayon,
Which is odd.
Never marker,
Or pencil,
Or paint,
But always
With tiny sticks of color
That look so strange
In his hands.

The pictures he creates
Are nothing special.
Not at all.
Vague shapes,
Childish scrawl,
In bright, bold colors
I never understood it.

He acts
Like it's not odd.
That a crayon
Is just a crayon.
Just a way to draw.
Which, I guess,
It is.

But he's seventeen.
To me it doesn't
Seem right or normal.
There has to be
Some deeper meaning
One he says
Doesn't exist.

He says he draws in crayon
Just because.

I never understood why.

That's in the past.
Now he's got Bart.
And Kon still draws in crayon.
Unlike me,
Bart never thinks to ask

So maybe
There's nothing
To understand.
Maybe a crayon
Is just
Another way to draw,
Like a marker,
And a pencil.

Maybe that's why
They work
Or maybe it's because
When Kon'll draw,
Bart will too.

~fin~