I am as dense as a block of clay
But cover me in salt water-
And I can be moulded into your desired shape
Sometimes I'm the potter
Incompetent and filled with rage
With a broken wheel
That shapes no mud, no clay
My rage seems unfiltered
but to project it, I find no place
So just to break it, I bake the mud again
There's a clueless customer waiting outside
Unbeknownst to the fact that-
I sell things one is not meant to buy
The wheel spins with its uneven rhythm
And I lose all composure as per the routine
The sound it makes causes me to bleed
It's creaks are too loud to go unnoticed
I forge a smile to the awaiting buyer
He seems interested with the pieces on the shelf
like me, they're all failed attempts
It's art he says; liar
I scoff at his remarks
Yet persistent he remains
I ask him to find beauty in this wrecked place
then appears my mirror covered in watered-down mud stains.
YOU ARE READING
Unsaid words
Poetry"Is happiness really a myth". A collection of the most cherished pieces of my soul: my poems. The things I wrote when I loved, when I hated, when I raged, when I dared and when from reality, I escaped. My poems are a way for me to get away from the...
