; sad stories

badwriter 24 | Cat Lady
Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
some melancholic exaggeration

because I don't want to do my assignment.
poets are so damn extra, don't you think?!


I take that lumpy clay in my hands, And put it on the wheel and kick As hard as my weak legs allow My legs have not walked in a long while, As one should walk Free-

The wheel It goes round and round, Smoothly as if no force is being used Effortless the onlooker perceives it to be While my legs know the burden That no one can see

My small rough hands do swirl, The clay in their grasp Lumps now gone- My small fingers swollen, Shape it up in a bowl Large Just like the void that is in my chest Empty For now Until we find something to fill it up with

It rests on the wheel As the dry barren winds Of fate so sterile Suck out the moisture and turn the clay hard- I put it into the oven So it may harden more, And be a bit stronger That inferno polite; Does make it stronger Or so it seems

For when the beautiful crucible is ready I put it on display- This is what I have created From the toil of my weak unshapely limbs Life For the stubborn child that it is, Smacks it down as it runs around playing

The holder of the void breaks Into numerous pieces, And so does my heart- Useless clay pot You will now go to waste Or maybe not that useless still; We'll play some seven stones with your remains.

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