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. 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Create a website or blog at WordPress.com

Up ↑


the way our lives are reflected and seen


Break the silence. End the violence.

Felie Fel's Pages

Don't be afraid, just turn the page.

Luke Atkins

Film, Music, and Television Critic

%d bloggers like this: