Like a white sheet unmarked by ink, a slab of clay, unshaped and unbaked. Everything is possible as spry green shoots, before bonsai wires dig into the roots.
He said pink. But she wished blue. Who decides what goes with who?
Face covered in paint, mistakes made here and there, I drew what I drew, etching dreams onto paper, sculpting mud like a creator. What I watered grew, thoughts I thought came true.
Why did it take a lifetime to see? That I am my own craft. And I shine my own hue.
Tell me now, can you do you too?
About the Creator
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