Here is what I need to say,
We're all human with feet of clay,
So, do lay off us chicks today,
Go look in a mirror some day,
To older men with your spare tyres,
Yes! Your gynaecologist has retired!

You're sitting there, hands smeared with clay
You feel good for a bit, like some sort of God
Even with bits of buffstone wedged underneath your fingernails,
you believe that you can create something beautiful - like some sort of deity wishing to gift the earth with the promise of life

Versatile in your hands, the ball of clay bends and folds while thoughts run through the confines of your mind
‘This clay,’ you think to yourself, ‘it’s doughy, weak and indefinite. Just like me.’
But, regardless of the similes and metaphors you pull from the material,
you’re convinced that you can do whatever you wish

Unlike drawing, your creation is not limited by the second dimension
And unlike the guitar, with its muted sounds or ringing E string, it isn’t as hard to destroy the purity of your art

You aren’t naive, and you are aware that it is impossible to create something perfect
It won’t ever be symmetrical, smooth or faultless - something that even we, vulnerable humans, can’t attain
You’ve done all to satisfy the need to transfer your grief, longing, joy and love into art
Maybe this is it

You manipulated me like clay into the finest of hearts.
Then smashed it to pieces into the most priceless of arts.

for now I will keep my little papers
because they bring me joy
but one day I'll chop myself up like a piece of clay
grey and soft and firm
to a small blank surface
ready to mold
ready to begin a new road
cross my fingers
not to sicken
cross my heart
not to remorse
mourn my memories that leave me still
but break from this proper cycle
fill my trashcan full of papers
that soon will empty
by then, there will be nothing
I could hope to do
my treasures are fleeting
and I, for once, will be new

"We are all afraid,"
what a cliche.
I'm not scared,
The world molds me
I'm its clay.

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,
Till,
it's torn out and something just
cRaCkS
....

A shattered glass
Can be made anew
But this time,
with clay

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

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
Sitting
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
Loud
Loud in the afternoon
and winning