I am like clay,

Impressionable and easily swayed.

My young mind is malleable to whatever is around me.

I have not yet been fired into an adult,

And many hands influence what I will eventually be.

Perhaps I will be purely for the joy of others -

-a vase or a statue.

Or, again, I might make myself useful -

-a cup or a bowl.

My soft heart must keep in constant motion

Or else it will harden and become cold.

My tears must flow freely

Or I will dry out and become an empty shell.

As of yet there is a faint outline of what I will be,

But my mind is confused and what was once a vase is now a bowl.

Yet there is hope

For I am clay

And I have not yet been fired.