A smooth clay sculpture slides across your thumb
The stickiness, the absolute mess
You despise it; the smile staring back at you
Your horrid creation is a gateway for dilemmas
Yet you throw it into this world, and grab more clay
That clay that you threw; it's screaming
Screaming for the smile to alter, but you do not show yourself
Your creation despises itself
It's stubby little legs; it's permanent smile
It doesn't feel content with existence
Discomfort follows it around; thunderclouds
A simple fix; quite an easy one
If you had spent even five more minutes perfecting it
It would feel handsome; it would feel free
Thunderclouds would clear, giving it air to breath
Though it is too late, I only ask you one thing
Please spend more time on your creations
They must live with themselves, not you.
YOU ARE READING
phosphenes
PoetryA collection of poems about mental health, identity and love. TW AND CW FOR POSSIBLY TRIGGERING TOPICS.
