I started off as a soft ball of clay.
Til a broken soul to hold of me one day and began to put the wheel to work.
The wheel of sorrow and pain and lies and chaos and fire and blood bound ties.
The wheel of hush hush and withered bones and coffins that lie beneath the stones that read "here lies what once was a Lilly til plucked from the living earth "
I once was a ball of clay, now here I sit on a shelf waiting to dry but why do I feel as I wait that nothing is alright.
The clay maker returns painting me softly with their brush, the strokes start to change and I feel myself cracking.
I can feel the heat coming from the dream wefted oven and I just want to be treasured for the product I am not what they want me to be.
But I am just a ball of clay as they shove me in the oven at "dissapointment" degrees. I feel myself burning and then....
It stops. The clay maker has left.
The lights are out ...and I can be ...
Just a ball of clay.
YOU ARE READING
Writings from the soul
Poetryhello my name is April and these are my original poems/ short writings. I write what's real to me, what's my reality and what is raw but also some are just burst of inspiration and I write as they come to me and will keep them organized. feel fre...
