I have a ball of clay.

It is shaped into a perfect sphere.
I can change that.
I can make it into something beautiful.
I can make it into something plain.
I can make it into something unique.

I have a ball of clay.

It can be burned.
It can be stabbed.
It can be beaten.
It can be torn.
It, however, will always be clay.

I have a ball of clay.

I do not have a clue what to do with it.
It is normal.
It is expected.
It is here.
And I am going to touch it.

I have a ball of clay.

I poke at it.
I play with it.
I begin to sink in my fingers.
It’s not long before my ball of clay becomes something new.

It is shaped into a new form.
It might not be beautiful.
It might not be normal.
It might not be unique.

But it is my clay.

My clay to shape and reshape.
To mess up with and start anew.
To not get right the first time.
Or the next.

The ball of clay is my life.
To shape and reshape.
To burn.
To bend.
To mess up with.

My life.

Eventually, it will come out right.
But for now,
I am just playing with a ball of clay.