Clay tells all your secrets 

the ones you hide from others and yourself

You think your doing a decent job at concealing your frustrations, anger, and sadness

but the clay points to every intrustive thought

it highlights your patterns and takes shape in the form of a big gloppy, sticky, disheveled mess of a bowl

not quite a plate not quite a bowl

leaning to one side more than the other

it's equalibrium shot and it's foundation cracked

 

You put your sunday's best on and comb your hair

standing there looking at the mirror

you put on your jewelry

thinking the more jewelry I wear, the cuter my ensemble, the neater my hair the less unhinged I seem

The more sane and glossy, 

like a freshly glazed piece, I look

But the glaze isn't thick enough it's transparent and opaque in some places, 

a mix-mash of colors and it's running down the side in droplets

 

You set up your freshly extruded clay

arrange your tools

clean the surface 

assume the position

 

But the clay dimples

and your fingers start to poke through the thin veneer 

you try to salvage it and re-mold it, 

start from scratch but it's no use

the clay collapses in on itself

 

Clay tells all your secrets