by I am just a small blue marker, living in a world of red. I do not have many friends and I feel alone and tiny. Maybe if I start to think of myself as red, I will become the beautiful colour. In a box of twenty I am but one, and not the favourite at all. I am never picked by the little kids, except for water and sky. And then my ink gets all used up, and I become blue like the tears drawn from me.
The box rumbles as we are walked down the halls, and then slammed on a desk. We shake around and maybe hit the ground if a slant is seen on the desk. Like the ones from long ago, before our time.
Duplicates can be seen of me all over the world. From China to Vanuatu to Greenland and more. Maybe I am not so special after all. I never really thought I was, but when I am used I feel confident. I can see my purpose when the maps come out or even great big globes. Or maybe when people have blue eyes, those are my times to shine.
Being a marker is hard, as I know my life is slim. I cannot be used forever, so I best enjoy it while it lasts.
So when my ink dries and skies are coloured, remember me forever. For I feel forgettable.
I am just a tiny marker, blue as the sky. Maybe I am your favourite colour, and for that I am glad.