Your Creation.

Clay in the hands of a broken artist;
You mold me a hundred times over.
This is wrong, this is wrong, you say as the owner.
Disgruntled and befouled, I’m not pliable.
A hundred times you mold me over;
clay in the hands of a broken artist.

 

Carved out of stone by shaking hands;
a soul is breaking in the making.
High on a pedestal you display me.
With dismay you can’t erase the cracks shown.
In the making a soul is breaking;
carved out of stone by shaking hands.

 

A masterpiece unmade painted by blind eyes;
my true self is hidden by the clash of color.
You paint me blue in innocence, brush black where my bare heart is.
A splash of red you throw on me to hide the bleeding.
By the clash of color my true self is hidden;
A masterpiece unmade painted by blind eyes.

 

Aren’t you proud as you’re the one who made me?
I was everything you planned until you grew tired and expired.
I crumble as you expect me to support your dreams,
laying a rotting masterpiece unmade.
Until you grew tired and expired I was everything you planned.
Aren’t you proud as you’re the one who made me?