I Am The Sculptor of My Own Image

Wed, 03/04/2015 - 04:46 -- gprz_

Location

A piece of clay, a piece of mind.
 

A sense of self I hope to find.
 

I wet my fingers then lick my lips,
 

I feel the clay beneath my fingertips.

Year after year, it’s always the same,

Perpetually pawing at an incomprehensible aim.

 

Some days, I feel close to the finish,
 

But soon enough, I feel that confidence diminish.
 

I flatten the model, and begin again,
 

Hoping this attempt will not be in vain.
 

Re-molding, re-shaping the same confused heap
 

I realize patience should not be buried so deep,
 

A model of mine may never enter the furnace,
 

Time moves with an unpredictable sternness.
 

One day, expectation and reality will coalesce
 

Regardless, this clay I am proud to possess.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741