A Lump of Clay

I’m strong and independent.

I demand respect—

at least when I’m not in your presence.

But with you,

I’m anything but.

I’m wet clay

you can manipulate into any shape—

and you do.

Bending, blending,

molded and folded

to do whatever you say,

whatever you want.

And often, it’s nothing.

You leave me in a lump,

a slump,

balled up.

It’s hell.

Warp me because you can.

Distort me because you’re bored.

Idle hands are the tools of the devil—

and you work yours well.