You are all born with a blank sketchbook in your hand, and a pencil behind your ear.

When you first enter the world, it's a gray, graphite, confusion.

But you still try to draw in your book.

You won't let the confusion stop you.

You soon learn, and get a purple pencil.

Then you grow and get green.

You trip and cry receiving blue.

Your guardian's warm arms lend you a yellow.

You go to school, seeing your future ahead, getting orange.

And your hope receives white.

But one day, they call you fat.

You lose a pencil.

They call you ugly.

You lose another.

They call you dumb, selfish, worthless, trash, gross, disgusting.

You fumble with your pencils, drawing long lines of blues in your book.

They hurt you.

They beat you.

They want you dead.

They take away your pencils, and hand you a thick, black paint.

You mercilessly paint your book black.

The color bleeding like your wrists to the other pages.

It curls.

It hurts.

It consumes.

Then... someone tries to help.

But your black overcomes their white, devouring it.

It overcomes, yellow and orange, it overcomes green and blue, it overcomes purple.

It even overcomes you.

You want to rip out your blank pages.

You want your book to end.

But...

Then you find a blue Crayola crayon.

You touch it to the paper.

The crayon's wax goes on the black stains.

It rides over it.

You draw a few strokes of blue.

The sadness inside of you churning and churning, but, it keeps you from reaching for the black of your knife handle.

You see yellow.

The blue mixes with yellow to make green.

Sadness mixes with happiness and you grow.

You draw a tree, your tree, in green, as you continue to grow.

You grow from the black, drawing page after page.

You reach the top of your tree.

The starry purple sky lighting your face.

You've learned from your roots and you continue to grow as the knowledge of the purple embraces you.

The yellow moon shining on you as you smile.

But...

Someone cuts down your tree...

And you go crashing to the ground.

You're lost in the darkness yet again.

The white light comes back, reaching for you, but you don't listen.

The hope beckons you to leave.

But you don't listen.

The voice asks for you to rip out pages.

But...

You remember what that means...

You don't want that anymore.

You stand up.

You grab a white Crayola crayon instead.

You drag it along the black abyss, until you find red.

Your heart flutters.

You feel love.

Your eyes glow yellow in the dead of the dark.

Yellow and red make orange.

Love and happiness create initiative.

You don't stop.

You keep marching on.

The black turning gray, turning white.

You keep going and you never stop.

Your colors return.

But...

The red stops.

So you stop.

You have learned to trust the red.

But, none of the other colors wish to stop.

You feel fear sink in as red remains still, holding you back.

Forcing you back.

The gray of fear hits the red.

"You've made a mistake."

The red turns dark, attacking you with crimson.

...

Red blood stains the carpet of your room.

Someone has torn out your final page,.

A box of Crayola crayons lay in your cold palm,

And the white crayon falls out.