When we are born, we are new and unscathed.
Untouched by the world, a blank piece of clay.
We watch and we learn, the world sculpting us as we go.
Content with who we are, content with what we know.
Our childhood reigns and we seize the day,
we're happy with our lives, and our piece of clay.
But time draws on, and we acquire more niches
and cracks, more experience; our naivety on fringes
until the day our confidence is shattered
and our dreams are halted.
the clay that was a canvas
becomes quicksand exalted
we fear, the day ceases
our foundation shakes
we gather the pieces
and before we know we hate the sculpture we've become
what we were once confident in
we want made undone
and we become aware
of who we are and are not
and how the world shaped us
somewhere in its plot
so we try to shape and unshape
Undoing what we've become,
searching for a better us
to bring the innocence back that
we came from.
but the world has left its mark
as we reach for the stream we're from
water cannot fix
clay damaged by the sun.
-n.
