What was made, couldn’t be molded into a story. It demanded its own identity, not to be created or changed by anyone. Once touched by the deformer, it is not the same anymore. A heart full of errors need to be mended, otherwise shall be abandoned. Why it can’t be accepted the way it is bred? Raw, untouched waiting to be explored.
Is that so? Oh, my creator! When you make me, I am no more myself. Is it you who reflect in me? The rain, a fire may expire the life in me. Alas! I am nothing but a piece of mud put together to outlive the epidemic. Is it a curse? Or a mistake?
Sometimes I am that flower pot to be showcased in the window while waiting for the sunshine to bring life into my roots. Or perhaps, a plumpish vessel that feeds hungry souls. Many hands tried their luck in revitalizing the statue of blunders but nothing could bring out from predetermined fate. The pain it’s soul captured had immense energy to negate the prophecy.
It is draining to be molded into something but, not self. Why it is so important to please others? What is this texture made of? Shooting thorns, handful of flowers, bleeding tears some dirt maybe? Pots made from the heart of mud may be repairable but can’t be changed. This is their story….