Just a Lump of Clay

I was once a writer,
but I’m really just
another lump of clay
waiting for the next
poke of Nature or Man
to thumb me into
something new.
Was this need to shape
lives from words another
of my passing fancies?
Like living, a pastime
from when you open
your eyes to when they
close them for you?
Sorry if this shape
wasn’t all you hoped,
because pleasing you
always had more urgency
than bleeding on a page.
Not sure why this
hurts so much. After all
I’m only a lump of clay,
and this just one more
smudge of my passing.

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One thought on “Just a Lump of Clay

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