Clay Poem

This clay is not left to the hands of gods,
Only to the hands of our idle thoughts..
The openness that allows for our spirits to be taught

Because worth cannot be bought, only achieved,
And I'm not stopping at my dreams..

You see, we precious gems are far too fine to be as spent
As we've been feeling
Digging down to the bottom of our last couple cents,
And yet the only thing we're stealing
Is your attention and your intent

Call me heaven sent, but I'm no angel
I don't need a filter nor a special angle for our gazes to become entangled

Still I crave more than just your perception
I want to feel acceptance and exception
Embrace me as your tribe, and tell me that you like the way we vibe
That I'm not like all the others you strung along just for the ride

Taste my words like you've been starving
Feel your initials in the wooden heart you've been carving
Because you're more than just a carpenter
And I'm more than just a wooden plank
I wrote this love poem to the art scene
So I left the name blank

Thankless nights and drunken reveries
Are the plight of our creative legacies
Immortalized in pretty words under the warmth of neon lights

Voices unobscured through the grates of open mics