Every day

My hands turn gray

Every day

They're gray as clay

Every day

I'm locked and loaded

Sculptin' my clay

My gaze is focused

What will be

My sculpture today?

How do I find out?

There's only one way!

Just experiment

Just try something new

What you make each time

It's all up to YOU!

...

In the beginning when god created the heavens and earth

He created the living things which walk this earth

But what if each creature was molded like clay

The creatures of the deep, before taking their plunge into the kiln of the ocean,

Were created to perfection by his hands

Like clay of a sculpture,

He places the moldable mass in front of him

And lets instinct guide him

He gave them fins for ...

One thing stuck out

As I was huddled down

Growing up.

Boys were always told

That God wipes away every single daughter’s every single tear.

So you best be careful with them.

Until a humble broken boy wondered at a man and asked

Does God wipe away my tears too?

And a heart melted at a topic buried under a pendulum swung too far.

They are not clay.

We are not clay.

Guys are not somethi...

You know

Its the only thing I can control

I can manipulate it in my hands

Pour my soul into the clay

I can control it

Unlike my mind

The racing thoughts

The words unwind

I mold it

Into a mug

A vase

A plate

I destroy it time

It doesn’t work

Its not quite right

So i mold it anew

I mold it into a heart

Still unbeating

Yet pulsating with emotion

Filled with the blood of my mind

I crush it betwee...

Hands caked with beige clay,

I work with slight dismay,

A present just for you,

Sculpted while I feel blue.

My clay is my canvas,

Coloring the blankness,

With the love you’ll soon see,

The care that will soon bleed.

Sweat douses my forehead,

My patience about dead,

I make your present great-

Or…_try_ to make it great…

Intention baked inside,

In the paintbrush that glides,

With hope, affection, ...

The hands held long locks, bending around her hands as natural as if the hard stone was real hair. The eyes pierced through the man, the cold stone seemed to see him transparently. The full lips seemed soft and warm but warning. The waist seemed to lean to the right. The sculpture seemed to be in motion of putting her messy hair up. The man, Pygmalion, sighed, looking away, as his fingers limply s...

Every day is a start of something new

A fresh start an empty pot

Endless possibilities that could never be known

The potter with his clay

Shaping and moulding into something great

Something new

Never seen before

This is the endless possibilities of what you could become

Like the clay in the hands of a sculptor

The possibilities are limitless...

From dirt and water.

In his image he breathes life.

Hands sculpting, creating form.

From dust, arise.

And dust, return.

Fingerprints left behind in clay.

A face unfinished.

Fresh and still.

With breath.

Life shall mold anew.

From his side,

The sculptor plucks argil.

A wife he forms.

All white earth and moss.

For his Adam of clay....

Long ago, in a faraway land,

There lived a man with calloused hands.

His life was quiet, his days were plain,

But shaping clay eased all his pain.

Each morning he’d sit at his cluttered table,

Molding the clay as best he was able.

Most days, the work brought peace and grace,

But this time, his efforts just felt like a waste.

“What am I doing?” the old man cried.

“The top is too lumpy, and the bo...

Her hands work furiously on the pale-white clay. Someone passing by and looking through the window might think she was lit within by the fires of a thousand ancient spirits, clawing at her heart and animating her fingers like a puppet. The clay melts before her fingers, twisting nothingness into form. She smirks, knowing her talent, until her foot slips on a bead of sweat, a tiny splotch of water ...