Impaled with impurities,
And no longer in innocent form,
Taken apart from the rest
To become your latest creation.
Thrown and beaten to be mixed together
Rolled into your view of perfection
Only made mallable by your hands.
Plop me down on your wheel
And spin away.
Control the formation by the strength of your hands
Refusing and ignoring the instinctual stubborness,
Molding with moisture on your hands,
Perhaps tears from your eyes?
Succeeding in not letting your mask of concentration fall
Your creation is complete to your personal desire.
But will it dry that way?
Will it keep the demanding form you've given in?
If not, you know you'll just try again tomorrow,
Perhaps more forceful next time.
So here I lie,
Your lump of clay,
To do with as you wish
For I have no say.
This is just a piece that popped into my head and perhaps ended up more in depth than I had planned. Um thrown and beaten is actually refering to how you have to knead clay, not phsyical abuse. Other than that, I'm not totally sure what my message is in this. Just came to me and came out on paper before I really knew what I was writing.