I set to build myself anew, I tore old walls apart to trade Crumbling brick for moving clay And shape honest to the core. I shaped myself a shallow bowl, I erred to craft a solid plate. I passed success and took Such a mangled clump apart. I tried to shape one, but no better than another, Oh! to stand tall. But now it stands to fall. Wicked devils eager work Lump to cut with string. Pieces come apart a brick, Shapes all to drown in slip. But what is worth in making after all?
It’s been a while since I felt like writing anything creative. Lately I’ve felt like doing nothing much, I missed direction, occupation and enthusiasm. It’s a terrible state in which I desperately need something to do, but don’t feel like doing anything. It’s a vicious circle with boredom and apathy feeding each other.
Today I am happy to have written this poem. I’m happy with it now, so here it is.