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Breanna W May 13
"We are all afraid,"
what a cliche.
I'm not scared,
The world molds me
I'm its clay.
Just another random poetic thought that I came up with when I was supposed to be working on something else.
Anya Apr 19
And I suppose I am,
forever one.
A wanderer, that is.
With the pineapple backpack absolutely screaming, "she tries too hard!"
The braids, "Throw back to elementary school"!
She searches in vain,
for a space amidst shadows
Threatening, to swallow her up
She misses the friend, she pushed away
She misses the group, laughing and joking on the other side of her wall of insecurities
She attempts to reassure herself,
it's torn out and something just

A shattered glass
Can be made anew
But this time,
with clay
Rowan S Mar 7
I am a living memory of you

For as a sculptor
Slow and methodic with the clay
You have shaped and molded
My very being
And all can see
Your impassioned mark on me
A testament to kindness
Tried, and true
Pulled from something a recently wrote (and posted). Sometimes the pieces are better than the whole.
a tasteless empty word
like numbness of the fingers
like numbness of the tongue
a numbness of heart
and false plastic lungs
bland face
bland skin
bland stomach
and bland eyes
wax satisfaction
in a false candle pose
wax candle prose
by plain poet hands
I am a wax figurine poet
who writes
but bland
ronnie hunt Dec 2018
Razor on the bathroom sink and the smell of pine and aftershave
Calloused hands
Dirt fingernails
You packed and formed the soil like clay
Like paint
You were an artist, silent in the morning
Coffee before work
One beer after
One beer after and a warm dinner she made
Pine and aftershave
on the stairs
on the carpet
on the carpet on the stairs
Lean in
Lean in, kids
Lean in and I’ll tell you about them
You said,
You are an artist,
Silent and coffee in the morning
Loud and beer on the stairs,
on the carpet in the afternoon
Leather seat
Newspaper dogear
Brewers turned on
In the leather seat,
‘Turn it up,
They’re winning!’
They’re winning
They’re winning
Screen porch
Wooden door
Screen porch through the wooden door
Bumblebee Boompa
Bumblee Boomps
In the garden
On the sink
In the kitchen
On the stairs
In the living room
On the porch
You are an artist
Silent in the morning
Loud in the afternoon
and winning
Jolan Lade Jan 4
Hey you
My heart is not clay
And still isn't, whatever you say
You can leave or stay
My heart won't care, not even on the onehundredandone day
Rui Rosa Nov 2018
Enemies of ours that are on the ground
Hallowed be your troops
Come to us your resources
My will be done
Just like in and out of your village
The Wood, Iron and Clay of each day gives us today
Forgive us our attacks
Just as I did not forgive those who attacked me
And do not let us fall into traps
And save us from all treachery
To our king!!!
my hands are on automatic, pressing down on clay for three hours
then pinching plastic through wire for another three …creating and creating.
Coiling around the hurt & hiding it in a mount of clay  "the kiln will burn it” I say to myself
My misguided attempts at the time to bury my hurt; run from it. All that remains of that time in my life are short poems like this one.  c. 2015
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