the books were better when the adults liked to read.

continuing on the theme of self sabotage, this one is iffy.

do you recall

my dying cadaver?

it was once a home,

i remember.

i tear, and gnaw

peeling, molding.

my skin of clay.

unwanted etches of glory.

the kiln. i reside,

never firing.

just a cold desolate pot

char constantly reminding.

my hands,

once guiding.

shaped beyond,

anything worth saving.