Child of clay,
Born in the shadow of death and decay.
Shaped and formed into what they're expected to be,
To be manipulated easily.

By the very hands that made them,
The hands that were supposed to care.
But what if they hate them, what then?
The creation crushed with just one stare.

And yet again, they're shaped and molded,
To always look as they please.
If they're not perfect, they will get scolded,
The cycle always repeats.

And when the creator is satisfied,
The flames **** the life out of the creation
They don't ever care about the child,
Just want to fulfill their temptations.

So the child stays alone,
Like none of this ever mattered.
And if it falls from the shelf, down below,
Its soul will immediately get shattered.