I am the clay you played with
Crafted me at first with love curious hands
But when l was still soft and vulnerable
Stil in my forming stages
Your life went south
And your hands grew angry
Clay crumbling in your hand
Through your fingers
Ripping my core apart
Pieces of me falling through your dreadful hands
Left to sit all by myself
Once you had come to terms with the regret you had
Sitting across from me in a mess
And wanting nothing more to have had turned back time
To when your hands never crafted me into what I am I am.
Left for years to harden
Now I am forced to chisel away at all the rough parts
Sand down the parts of me where your finger prints stained.
The excruciating pain that I have to great off of me so that I am nothing like you.
Coughing up dust
Is a price I have to be willing to pay
In fear my hands will one day create life
And I'll strike angry the way you did,
But I bleed today to know that I will never leave my child with a chisel in her hand
Wondering why she was never good enough
Why she was something to be given up on.
And I wonder if you have never corrected the imperfections your mother crafted you with
So when it was your turn
Fresh Clay in hand
You mistaken fear as anger
And that's why you hated your masterpiece
But I take back what you abandoned
And with a lot of work
I make my own art piece.
