The clay arrives, a dull and muddy lump,

It has no form, no clear idea, just one big slump.

It sits there, formless, waiting for its cue,

Like a friend who needs instructions for everything they do.

I want a clean objective, a goal that’s sharp and defined,

But this earth just demands that I change my entire mind.

It resists the smooth surface; it takes the wrong shape with a sigh.

It's a metaphor for people I don't vibe with: superficially high.

I apply the pressure, the focused, intentional force,

Trying to turn this chaotic potential toward a meaningful course.

But it cracks when it dries too fast, it slumps when I walk away—

It embodies the stress that ruins the best part of my day.

I had a perfect vision, a balanced, noble piece,

But the clay, like my enthusiasm, just refuses to find peace.

I push and I prod, I try to take initiative and lead,

Only to find the whole project has planted a messy seed.

I look at the final piece, uneven and slightly skewed.

It's not perfection, but it's an honest piece of crude.

I finally accept its flaws, the dark humor of the art.

It's beautiful because it’s a struggle—a messy, clay-caked start.