You make a mold
out of clay
Leave it outside
for a day
on a table
you're feeling great
You know it's easy,
Then you turn away
Suddenly then, the whole world thinks
"Wow, that clay's left out for me"
They all fight each other
Shaping the clay
Then take some pieces
Turn it every which way
They mold so much
That by the end of the day
The clay left out
Is not your clay
It's an abomination
of the people
Their hands
On your mold
You try and try
To shape it back,
it's still
So that's it
You think they're evil
So you grab some clay
You shape it up
You have the sense to say
That enough's enough
You let dry
You keep it always in your sight
Only you making changes
And you think it's alright
So after it dries
You tear your chest apart
Insert the clay
Or rather, your heart
You made it yourself
And it wasn't molded
by anyone else
That first heart, though
Is screaming in pain
From the anxiety
The self-doubt
The anger that strains
on that little heart
That has been through hell
All because the world
couldn't help themselves
