I’ve been keeping a bullet journal for more than a year. I’m not particularly artistic. When it comes to drawing and penmanship, my scribbles are nothing like the works of art I see online and dismally try to emulate.
That doesn’t keep me from trying.
I have supplies… colored pens, colored fine-tip Sharpies, colored pencils, all sort of crayons, stickers, and stamps. Oh, the stamps!
Some of the pens and pencils are leftovers from when my kids were in school, others I bought. I have more crayons than I’ll ever be able to use in my entire, natural life. If I turn zombie I’m set for eternity.
School started this week where I live, and that means back to school supplies are still in abundance at our local stores. I used to love this time of year. I’d take my kids shopping for new binders, reams of college ruled paper, pencils, markers and yes, crayons.
More crayons aren’t on my shopping list this year, but I think I need more stickers though, maybe a couple of new stamps.
“Life is like a box of crayons. Most people are the 8-color boxes, but what you’re really looking for are the 64-color boxes with the sharpeners on the back. I fancy myself to be a 64-color box, though I’ve got a few missing.” John Mayer
This week’s word is:
Color
What to do:
Using “color” for inspiration, write 100 Words – 100 exactly – no more, no less. You can either use the word – or any form of the word – as one of your 100, or it can be implied. Include a link in your post back here, and add your story to the Mister Linky list. If you don’t have a blog, you can leave your submission in the comment section, or as a Facebook status post. Remember to keep spreading the love with supportive comments for your fellow Wordsters.
Thin spiral notebook 
🙂 thank you
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MY CHANGING COLOURS: (100 words)
Green, fulsome trees, our shelter, tower above
strong, noble, looking down on us,
a protective feel to it.
How did they get so tall?
(An absurd question, like an elderly aunt who forgets you’re all grown, asks ‘how old are you now?’)
Red, orange, purple leaves sway delicately, elegantly in a soft, blowing wind,
adapting, as they must – seasonal change.
Yellow, drying, dying, they fall, discarded.
Do they feel rejected? No longer good enough for those proud trees?
Their cast-offs gather, until a great gust of wind sweeps them off, to other places.
I wonder if they’ll like it.
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I’m so glad you entered a poem. Other than Ruby’s beautiful verses, (and sometimes my own) I don’t get to read many. I think the limited word-count lends itself well to poetry. This was lovely.
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thank you so much Tara, its not a fabulous poem but I like to try to do something for each topic so do appreciate you taking time to read it. Been writing for years, rarely let anyone read my stuff. thanks a mill
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We never know how it will turn out until we try… and we are always our own worst critic.
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you can never have too many )
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I found another stash of crayons just this morning. I’m beginning to think I have a problem.
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A good one to have)
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