Who, then, is the artist? 

Mold me

like ceramics

fingertips carving into cold clay.

Anything is possible.

Mold me

like a story 

words creating the view my eyes see.

Highlighting the blues

 and forgetting the rays of sunlight.

Mold me

like an opinion

an experience dictating choices,

I haven’t made yet.

Sweet wisdom

passed down

from generation to generation.

Mold me

like a bird

who didn’t know

that once it jumped

it would never taste

such thin air ever again.

Scars are beautiful.

 Not all of them

look the same. 

Mold me

like a dress

beautiful to the eye

and silenced until chosen

and danced in.

Stand for something

worth speaking up,

to dance the night away, and sacrifice face value.

Mold me 

like a teacher

give material, a mess

let the meaning appear on its own.

A needle in a haystack, I’m the needle.

Mold me

like creativity influences art.

Just don’t count the times I’ve pricked you. 

I promise you I’m worth the blood lost.