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Jayantee Khare Aug 2018

A fine play
of the
clay
soft
and sift
moistened
turns malleable
gathered and made
to spin on a slow wheel
formed with shaping hands
baked at a high temperature
comes out a beautiful craft
and both of 'em are ready
an urn from the pottery
and  the  poetry!!


Another shape poem......trying the analogy between poems and vases
cat Mar 7
i hear the patter of dust
and i long to hold the hand of pottery
to be porcelain and pale
melded by wrinkled fingers
designed by reverie
what gorgeous man muses
i behold him in his invention
leisurely he strays to the couch
his work fancies for the day
rays seeping and floating
our floors de madera
Isaac Aug 2018
My youth is nearly sealed,
A letter for anyone to read.
All my choices noted down.
God's judgement guaranteed.
I made so many mistakes,
Though I tried my very best.
Whatever challenges life gave,
I hope I passed the test.
My joy lies in being
Pottery in my creator's hands.
I know he is the only one
Who forever understands.
Written 15 August 2018

God sees us, knows us, and understands us.

For some, this is a truth that brings terror. For others, this is a truth that brings peace. To whoever is reading this, I hope and pray it is the latter.

2 Corinthians 5:10
Jim Davis Apr 2017
In the last
three decades,
after we became one,
I touched
amazingly beautiful things,
horribly ugly things,  
unbelievably wondrous things

I touched nature's majesty;
hued walls of the Grand Canyon,              
crusty bark of the
Redwoods and Sequoias,
live corals of the
Great Barrier Reef,
dreamlike sandstone of the Wave

I touched magical and strange;
platypus, koalas and
kangaroos Down Under,
underwater alkali flies and
lacustrine tufa at Mono Lake,
astral glowing worms
in the Kawiti caves

I touched holy places;
Christianity's oldest churches,
the Pope's home in the Vatican,
Hindu and Sikh temples and
Moslem mosques in India,
Anasazi's kivas of Chaco canyon,
Aboriginal rocks of Uluru and Kata Tjuta

I touched glimmers of civilization;
uncovered roads of Pompeii,
fighting arenas of Rome,
terra cotta armies of Xian,
sharp stone points of the Apache,
pottery shards from the Navajo,
petroglyphs by the Jornada Mogollon

I touched fantastical things;
winds blowing on the
steppes of Patagonia,,
playas and craters of Death Valley,  
high peaks of the Continental Divide,
blazing white sands of the  
Land of Enchantment

I touched icons of liberty
and freedom;
the defended Alamo,
a fissured Liberty Bell,
an embracing Statue of Liberty,
the harbor of Checkpoints
Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie

I touched glorious things
made by man;
the monstrous Hoover Dam,
an exquisite Eiffel tower,
a soaring St Louis Arch,
an Art deco Empire State Building,
the sublime Golden Gate Bridge

I touched sparks from history;
the running path of an
Olympic flame just off Bourbon,
the last steps of Mohandas Ghandi
at Birla House before Godse,
******'s Eagle's nest and the
grounds over Der Führerbunker

I touched walls of power;
enclosed rings of the Pentagon,
steep steps of the
Great Wall of China,
untried bastions of
Peter and Paul's fortress,
fitted boulders of Machu Picchu

I touched strong hands;
of those conquering
Rommel's and ******'s hordes,
of cold warriors of
Chosin Reservoir,  
of forgotten soldiers of Vietnam,
of terrorist killers of today

I touched memories of war;
the somber Vietnam memorial,
the glorious Iwo Jima statue,
the cold slabs at Arlington,
the buried tomb of USS Arizonians,
Volgograd's Mother Russia  

I touched ugly things;
shreds of light in
Port Arthur's prison,
horrible smelly dust
in the streets from 9/11,
ash impregnated dirt
in the pits at Auschwitz

I touched oppressed freedom;
open ****** plazas
of Tiananmen Square,
smooth pipe and concrete
of the Berlin Wall,  
tall red brick walls
of the Moscow Kremlin

I touched constrained freedom;
heavy ankle and
wrist slave chains
in the South,
little windows
in Berlin's Stasi prison,
haunted cells in Alcatraz  

I touched remnants of madness;
wire and ovens of Auschwitz,
stacked chimneys and
wooden bunks of Berknau,        
Ravensbruck, and Dachau,
the tomb of Lenin,
toppled Stalins

I touched hands of survivors;
of Leningrad's siege,
of German POWs and
of Russian fighters
of Stalingrad's battle,
of Cancer's scourges  

I touched grand things;
deep waters of the Pacific and Atlantic,
blue hills of Appalachia,
towering peaks of the Rockies,
high falls of Yosemite Valley,
bursting geysers of Yellowstone,
crashing glaciers of Antarctica and Alaska    

I touched times of adventure;
abseiling and zipping in Costa Rica,
packing Pecos wilds and Padre isles,
flying nap of earth Hueys to Meridian,
breaking arms in JRTC's box,
fighting Abu Sayyaf, and Jemaah
Islami in Zamboanga City

I touched through you;
wet sand beaches of  Mexico and Jamaica,
mysterious energy of the monoliths of Stonehenge,
rarefied air in front of the
Louvre's Mona Lisa,
ancient wonders of Giza,
Egypt's tombs and pyramids

We shared soft touches;
drifting in Bora Bora's
surreal waters,
joining hands camel trekking the
Outback's dry sands,
strolling along Tasmania's
eucalyptus forest trails

basking in swinging hammocks
under Fiji's bright sun,
scrambling in
Las Vegas' glittering and
red rock canyons,
kissing under the
Taj Mahal's symphony of arches

We shared touching deep waters;
propelled in gondolas
through the city of canals,
Drifting atop Uru cat boats on Lake Titticaca,
Swooping in jet boats
up a wild river in Talkeetna

Racing in speed boats
around Sydney's great harbour,
skimming in pangas in Puerto Ayora,
paddling the Kennebec for
East's best petroglyphs,
cruising Salzbergwerk's underwater lake

We touched scrumptious things;
Beignets and chicory coffee at DuMonde's in the Big Easy,
Hot *** with sesame sauce
in the walled city of Xian,
Peking duck, dimsum, scorpions,
snake and starfish on Wangfujing Snack Street

We touched delicious things
Crawfish heads and tails at JuJu's shack
and ten years at Jeanette's,
Langoustine at Poinciana's, Fjöruborðinus and Galapagos,
Cream cheese and loch bagels
at Ess-a' s in the Big Apple

I touched your hand riding;
hang loose waves of Waikiki,
a big green bus in Denali's awesomeness,
clip clopping carriages of Vienna, Paris,
Prague, New Orleans, Krakow,
Quebec City, and Zakopane,
the acapella sugar train of St Kitts

We shared touching on paths;
the highway 1 of Big Sur,
the Road of the Great Ocean,
the bahn to Buda and Pest,
the path to the North of Maine,
the trail of the Hoh rainforest,
and time after time, the way home

Yet,
I could spend
the next three decades,
in simple bliss,
having need for
touching nothing,
other than you!

©  2016 Jim Davis
A poem I wrote last year for my wife!  Posted now since it matches the HP' theme for today - "Places"
Jane Doe Apr 2018
I know the names of all the birds
in your language and my own.
If I tell them to you –
is that enough?

That would not be enough.
My life’s careful machine would have to
be halted – parts would have to
be removed and replaced.
The cost would be enormous.

I know where to find ancient things
buried in the earth.
Coins, broken pieces, bits of pottery.
Is that enough?

That would not be enough.
I cannot take your jewelry
for my fingers – I must not study
your artifacts, those broken pieces.  
Some things must stay below the dirt.

I know where the jackdaws roost
in the quiet bell-tower of a village church.
If I take you there –
is that enough?

That would not be enough.
We could never stand by that
gentle river, in that village
with the old stone church. If I went there
with you I would never leave.

What if you never left?
We would undo all of our choices,
We could run the river backwards,
is that enough?

That would not be enough.
We will stay buried like bits of pottery,
silent as bells in an empty church.  
Jackdaws returning to roost,
remaining in patterns they don’t understand.
carbonrain Dec 2018
I can feel your heart ache under your soft, warm skin as I glide my fingers along your gold-mended pottery fractures. Skating on the glaze you've let me peer beneath to reveal your raw materials. We used to use air and clay and water to speak, now we communicate in a wordless language, born of naked otherworldly splendor.  — and  that planet, your body, I long to explore.
unnamed Jul 6
Battered and beaten
So they may be put together more beautifully
Pain gilded gold dust reshapen in form
Shatter my bones  
I need this,
"broken...pottery"
L B Apr 2018
Down the ******--
Adventures of Feral Children

If there has to be a gate, I suppose I have always had my own theory that “The ******” was one of those places through which God pulled Paradise inside out.  I was always wandering there, pretending-- playing sometimes or searching for something-- the exact moment that spring begins, or the place of my secret dwelling where I was in charge, where I was queen.  Always hoping for the constant surprise of beauty, a lady slipper-- stunning last year's leaves, a meadow of white violets-- May snow on green?  Or was the startle of of seeing my first scarlet tanager in the saplings-- still too cold for leaves?

To the uninitiated The ****** was nothing more than the meaning of its name, a bending tube of woods with a brook tracing along it-- like snake's spine.

Not a practical place for a housing development, it had an ether of history as some “Valentine Park” and playground, and I guess that was true, judging from the ruins of bridges, stone half-penny steps, and the overgrown lima-bean shaped pool.  Huge, stone block stairs had faced each other, lining the entrance of a spring-- a fountain once, covered now with moss.  It loomed at dusk like an ancient temple.  Even the course of the brook had been maintained by giant, redstone slabs-- long-since tumbled in the wake of hurricanes whose names I've forgotten....

...Like a snake's spine... always there for a thousand years, wearing its steep banks ever-deeper into the guts of city till oaks, hemlocks and white pines became sentinel giants, far taller and older than their genes had ever intended.  In the war for sunlight, they through up an unwitting wall against all-- but the most daring encroachments...

...Like say-- like say half-grown people, cigarette butts, broken bottles, and underground “forts” with their smells of stale beer and musty clothes, old mattresses-- echos of giggling, the aura of explored forbiddens.  To us who knew her, The ****** could outlive remembrance but not rumor.  Like an old graveyard or an abandoned house, it was the place to go with our bags of candy, pea-shooters, and fire crackers!  We'd go there to fake-smoke punks-- we either were or wanted to be--
  
Somebody's parents always leaving their lights around....

We came there to delve into our made-up mysteries, like the one about that antique car that had rusted in “The Swamp” for centuries!  ...that someone's dead cousin drove off The ******'s cliff side one night... drunk as a skunk!  ...right where The Diamond Match's got this big pipe that spews all that gray **** into the brook! ...right where we used to swim and play on the hottest days since we couldn't use the city's Paddle Pond (folks were scared of polio in those days), so we played at “The Pipe” --making “Indian pottery” with the neighbors,  Gary, Davy, Shelley, and Sandy.  Red clay cups and ashtrays on red hot afternoons-- making wild polluted Indians of Jew and Irish kids alike.

Now I almost forgot.... I was telling you about that antique car-- the one some cousin of Ross was supposed to 'ave driven right off the cliff into the swamp and died... Well... His ghost still lurks there! ...and goes into 'iz cousin's body-- Ross, that is....  Let me tell ya!  Ross could sure mess up an afternoon's good time by his appearance!
                                          __­__

  
But The ****** wasn't just for spooks-- not if you were into spraying girls with rusted cans of rotten Reddi Whip, kicking skunk cabbage (same effect), or finding frogs eggs under lily pads,  Gary even discovered those curious old Italians picking water cress barefoot in The Frog Pond.  Intensely curious, he was not afraid of their funny speech and ways.  He had gallon cans and pickle jars for raising pollywogs-- so he was on a mission.  But best of all, Gary had a backyard that overhung The ******'s swamp!  We could even view The Pipe hurling runoff ten feet out into the basin!  Our aberrant Niagara after a good storm.

Then there was the time that Tarzan swing just appeared!-- Like one of those convenient vines in the jungle movies!  It hung from a pine on one of The ******'s sheer sides, and was capable-- when wrapped around the trunk and given a running start, of providing one helluva-swooping-good ride-- out over the brook, into the sunlight and back-- with a thousand terrifying variations.  Took me a while to work-up my nerve-- a little longer to be really fine!

Tommy Gireaux fell and broke his arm.  Our swing was nothing but a stump of rope next day.  Twenty feet up, dangling fun, cut off and left-- to remembrance of times so real Tarzan made personal appearances!

______
Of course, there's more to this.  Our feral band of explorers discovers the soggy Playboys and gets sidetracked from their mission to find  "The Pine Cathedral" and where The ****** actually ends.  Ross shows up.

Not a fiction...not a fiction.

I am totally frustrated by my efforts to use and delete italics and bold print.  Why can't this site just post them as they appear in the writing???   How hard can that be?
Mugerwa Muzamil Feb 2018
How it felt about when she smiled
Her roses were red wine
Teeth were an iceberg in a cold sea
I didn't know she knew me more than by name
I walked head up to her in a confident laze
She always willed to lay a hand in a steamy time

Whenever she called me by my pet name
I would light up a grin
How I couldn't help her spell
How much I belied of having a way out
The more she drew close, the more I sank in
How she made seduction a white collar trade
The lavish eyes, the lazy talk, the pure feminine mien

She pat on my shoulder and turned to catch a glance
Asked what made her hands a soft pleasure
Whispered that she was schooled in pottery and making dough
I couldn't stop but ask about the flawless curves
She pushed out her lips and said  I used to spin a ring at nine

I asked her out for a movie
She said tragedies make her cry
One day I went to look down through my office windowpane
My sight met hers taking down a secret gang
With a fierce nine millimeter gun
I was left speechless in awe

We needed to rethink our revolution
On her mission in Damascus a plane crashed
I still cried a pail.
This was inspired by a mysterious beautiful lady who used to help me out at work whenever I was clueless
Chris Saitta Apr 24
The light from the end of eternity
Comes in through the window glass
Sits on the sill with the red Anthurium
In the stenciled orange Waterford vase
Centuries.down.and.Decades.done.
From the grassy light of the Lyceum.

If the sun were to choose where to die,
It would falter over Pompeii,
And lie like a broken godhead
Or lava poured into the pottery cups of
The open-skied houses.
Verde Nero (The Fresh Market)
Sleeping in the winds of the lonely streets sweeping the streets, the piece is sewn wisely

Maschera (The Ball Dancing)
Protesting, **** wearing glasses to keep out the stoners
Plain speaking and rhetoric in monolithic's splitting city in this rubber English, covers our converse

Aida ( The Girl Weeping)
Tellers  followed nervous brick kick-downs avert the pother of rivers
Tocsin compunction in gumption of broken biting quote of Ides' bridling bust of Cesium on the betting of nickle dimes
In terms of bigger times

Corsaro (Cling And Fling)
Center popped the plenty lurid men crying crime ******* copper pottery decree from the street
Note, letter to yourself might be the first rhetoric device
Selling your self-evident truth untow'rd temerity unnerved didactic spell

Cover yourself with the fuliginous wetness, wipe the posters of red "I love you" in simply cheerful spirit
Idyllic, how you ensure our homework cries in fishing in ponds lighter then brightening by the pencil of sketching serenity
Oleaginous and oceanic oeuvre in ostensible cerulean seas
DivineDao Sep 7
Woebegone are daily Thrusts when Life
Is happening.

Therefore - no need intices Us
To pour the Black or Bluish Ink
into the Whitest Indigo Alternative.

Yellow is Golden. Gold is for the Star Gods.

They are above our power, above and over the gender differentientia..

Só - - Love and Praise Love giving Light Illuminaries! Our Gods of Solar winds
and rain and floods and growing "things"
Do not care about Marakesh, Neo-nazis, pacifists or Vezuvian dust bites.

They Emanate, Emit and Emirate
Brilliantly To us  Offer-rings Divine - - Life manifested Love for All

Love for All!!!

... And all I have longed for ~'~
was your Embrace. ThatLove
transmitted and Enhanced,:;. I Thank Thou Pure~Intent§' *§
Thou lovely smiles of no names~lands, Thy clean, clear-fatial features.

Black Velvety Tulip should be heard-byyoutoyouwhispered (From Me to Thy Presence) from Near~nearnesses, when we love(d) each other in those summer pine woods. The playful shadows sometimes play with shinny colours and exchange the long day for a beautiful Night...
And I'll never forget The Love within Your Eyes.

Those soft words of yours, thy knowledge..
gentle raindrops upon your walking being I love and Love... and yet, why do you walk, like you were crushed, injured, remote, withdrawn in solemn thoughts - - How can I heal from you?!! Is your focus elsewhere 'cause the remedy you seek is not harmonious with pulse of my beating drum!!?
Wholenesses, Galaxies, Love, Lust, Pliè

The Europe has Been Unified in Mutual
Understanding.
It's religious Abode has been (stillis) Petratka's Dome for Torcherings, Muted People's Dreams doomed by some deeply perveresedPsychological Violence (of Elites?) The Red Violin's Obssessive 'A posteriori Mortem Lovings' , For Bombs and Boom Boom Bombastic *** Slavery Proclaimed and Approved so Innocently and Meekly By Accolades Gaining Genially Prolific Authors..

Let me ask Thou Hearts -_-not ThyMainBrain:"Who would ***** if not in vein,out of scrutiy and utmost struggle, pain!!!? Would you be pleased if circumstances were Turned around and you'd be the one who has to struggle for survival (perhaps not being able to the fullest point - as you are now?)
Would your human dignity be pleased, when others generous"humility" proclaimed so easily:
"If it's for the money, so what the hell, we both gain - me the pleasure and you the" golden "game"".
And yes - - Where's the check for our Ideas you MF Criminals!?!
"
Thy Heaven oh - Rich, Elegant, Arrogant, Arduous, Europeans and DarklyDeep Global Intellectuals.. Have you been of some help?!
To Whom do Do you Blow, For Who do Youperform, Who's the Ruller of Thy - <3
Hades for The Famined and Deprived
Artistry, Crafts and Different Cultures
Havana, Bahamas,
Chick Chorrea, No nausea, Sydney, Mauritius and a pig Guinea
Now Na na na na
The Europeans have Got The Wisdom!
.Undoubtedly.
Pragmatism reins!
Especially on billboards:for women no Harry no orangeries on tights, all noses that are not tiny as Mini mice it's oh - so ******* unnice: in Europe do not be too fat, do nať há Američan Indian, Arabic or Hooked nose - Listen - You'll be a Threat woman! They might mix you up for some mad scientist, for The Thinker for a man of knowledge and power... Do rather break thy brittle bones and subdue to infancy rhymed~~ rhythm and shuffle in your domesticated *** the poultry and look extremely lash fluttery flattering naive woman-forewa childfeaturedeffeverscentmeek
creature.

And we'll plan some tanks and bombs and missiles and Those fantastically Gorgeous Self Thinking Killer Robots To Erase

Who!?!
Inspiring smooth operating mediums Always on the run
Await for us within This Virtual Millennia
We can hide between white earrings
We can play with Identities,
We can **** as many **** of knowledge as we want The World wide Web
Whereas digits and Dots Resolve
The Forest's Loved Longitudes,

Whereas The Creatures Loveliness
Exposee is heard among the Jungle plantiful clustered Middle plants; Their Beating Hearts, and Veins and All those moving limbs, and joints and not only segregated Left/right Wings

But Whole Chivalry the Nature Can Provide

Do listen attentively:
Audio miraculously sly sounds of Winged Beings have Enchanted Me, as dots and Stripes and Patterns

Oh - The Sacred Symmetry of Natura Sans
Ad Homminem Dat Dost Dates

Poetic Poesy Perpetuum Pottery Wheels
Humming as Milton's Longing Blakes

When we observe Works of Art
Today O'night we forget the outer world.

We Laugh Out Loud in pleasant, cute and
Unstoppable Adorable Manner - That Hurts No-one, Nobody, None, not even
Opuss Magnum Max & BunkerNumb. 1

You see:)( :
We see many beings, Sterling's, Garrets, Chelloss, Storms and Diamonds in the rough
And Yet - How can we not be energetically
Energized!?!

Borghes IS  (  The one and only mindblowin'ImpeccableEssays final~fantasy  ) approaching on Syberian Sybertooth Lion. S/he rides the FurryBeast with Nelly Furtado, Milla Jovović and Nipke.

I knock on Your door my Trustfully Neighbour's Friendofafriend.
Under OldTreeGiantTop no-one is ever Alone~Love

Whereas Truthful Threads remain Like
Utopistic Melancholy
Dreams Diseased
Divine Prolonged Prolegomenas
Being Grateful for so many Exceptional Persons, who may or may not ponder upon my Words.

The essence is God.
God is
❤️♥️
Elioinai Sep 2018
I am a bright light
and I defy all walls and prisons
With Holy Fire
I devour boxes like paper shreds
but I’ve just begun to burn
and I’m only an ember compared to my future
A Roaring Burning
I will not hide the glory of the One inside me
Like oxygen and diesel
it is He who feeds me
I am but the pottery that must crumble away
until I am a skeleton lampstand
Leaving a Naked Flame
Desire is a fire
That connects us to the heavens
Reminds us of our origins
We are ambivalent to the gods
While they speak using our tongues
Words and symbols are plenty
Yet totally empty
Devoid of meaning
Without ample life experience
We flounder in a sea of groundless being
A dichotomy indeed
To breathe and seethe
With the rawness of needs and desires
I inspire compassion and attraction
Magnetic action is diverse and never perverse
We are reflective, selective and interconnected
We are agile, fragile and dance like daffodils
We are saddled with guilt and shame
Yet you ride ******* through life’s pain
On unstable horizons
Dinosaurs deny your company
And relatives neglect the comfrey
Leave piles of waste behind their houses
Impermanent traces of yesterday’s pottery
=======
Kintsugi
=======

Also know as
"Golden Joinery"

Or "Kintsukuroi
Golden Repair"

Is the Japanese art of repairing
broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum, a method similar to the maki-e technique.

As a philosophy, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise.
How did water learn to pottery emotion from my face, the
brittle smile cracking the Gait
of Gravity  engineering Thought
and Christ from a stumbling bloodstream
filling my flesh with salted red ink
stunk with burnt molecules of the Sea.
Alex Oct 4
I turn a page and my hoodie sleeve hitches up.

She sees the red that circles my wrist as tattooed bracelets
And suddenly her nails are cutting too
Deep into my shoulder
And suddenly her voice is a wounded gunshot in my ears
And suddenly there are tear tracks on her cheek that sizzle on my skin between the lines of my story and suddenly
I wonder whether she cries poison or is it acid? And
Suddenly I am trapped in this room because every square inch is Her and suddenly
I’m not here because someone else is pressed against the radiator with this Monster Of A Woman crying toxic waste and breathing sparks
Gripping their shoulders too tight too-tight-don’t t o u c h them you’re leaving Bruises and suddenly
I don’t know which of these people below me are the villain because
Suddenly
The one with flames instead of words is
Four gaping feet away
And the one with purple-black splashed
Where feathers would sprout has gone,
glass-eyed glacial
Unresponsive to the way salt droplets are supposed to erode ice
Not make it thicker somaybe they’re the monster
Moulded
Of the same cracking clay

‘a lonely couple makes a child out of clay, with disastrous or comical consequences’

A terracotta boy is a joke of tragic origins and suddenly
My art teacher is preaching to me that if you over-heat Clay, it will explode and
Their back is still pressed to that
Roasting radiator
And the air is still heated with residual flame from the Dragon’s blaze of words and this atmosphere is
B u r n i n g
And pottery only survives so much
Crimson before it
Splinters
And suddenly And suddenly

She’s yelling, why didn’t I think of her before doing this to myself?
My back is blistering as I bite my tongue
“Mother, I thought of you every time that blade touched my skin to create wounds you once kissed away”
Cut and trimmings mummified in your dreams in the cool of the evening
Lithe, and it's pottery
Raeann Jul 27
My hands held the peices of our love
Crazy glue at the ready
Waiting for you to help me arrange our lives.
Craft room empty
Walls laid barren
No pretty vase to grow the flowers we dreamed.
Just peices of pottery in the trash
FEED BACK NEEDED.
rose Feb 10
Sometimes I imagine us holding hands,
Walking along the harbor:
You, telling stories of all these lost years
       like a pelican begging for food
Making music out of my invisible tears

But maybe instead of holding your hand
I should hold on to the future
And stop chasing your footprints in the sand
Only to be led nowhere.
I will no longer swim in these tears.
I have felt the ache of the salt burn on my skin for far too long.
It’s not worth docking on this pier
If you don’t treasure me like the shells along your shore.

So I set sail.
I will find a new island to call my own &
Sculpt the land like shaping clay on a pottery wheel.

I will treasure all of my shells and secrets
The way you did not treasure me.
And for once, I will command the sea.
Skyler M Oct 2018
My friend gave me her pottery creation,
A beautiful rainbow cup to hold all my fantastical paradises,
Only so long until I realized that it held all my nightmares,
And the cup was designed to cut my lips as I sipped it's contents,
I was too young to understand, too young to know.

When years later all my walls came crumbling down,
Then the river flooded my town,
My imagination,
My creativity,
My will to fight,
And all my emotions I had hoped to keep,
Washed away within years of living alone inside her home.

I promised myself that I'd never let myself go that deep,
At this point when all my emotions get washed away,
If I had someone like her- I'd break myself back down,
I was strong then and then there's now, where I'm more so,
There was no rules or pay to fly back then but I never understood that,
Not in her grasp.

When years later all my walls came crumbling down,
Then the river flooded my town,
My imagination,
My creativity,
My will to fight,
And all my emotions I had hoped to keep,
Washed away within years of living alone inside her home.

The cup kept on cutting my lips,
Even after the aftermath of devastation she wrought onto me,
Colorful clay crumbling into razor blades,
Stop this now, please stop this now,
Nightly fights to stay home and brood into red stained papers,
I was too young, much too young to understand the capacity of my anger.

But I'm here now,
I see her time and time again,
Her eyes are brighter and she seems better,
I don't hate her but I most certainly should,
When my bones shiver in the past,
I become 10 years old once again,
Fearing for myself and the cold,
Scared beyond belief,
I don't trust anyone not even the ones closest to me,
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I keep pushing you away,
Bleed into my home and heal me again.

When years later all my walls came crumbling down,
Then the river flooded my town,
My imagination,
My creativity,
My will to fight,
And all my emotions I had hoped to keep,
Washed away within years of living alone inside her home.

— The End —