A square block of clay, everyone has their own say
Possibility concealed, soon to be revealed.
Cold against skin, not knowing where to begin,
Thrilled, but unskilled, but it seems these others are...
They sure seem nice, so you ask for advice,
They seem so sure, feeling secure, assured
As they tell you how to shape the clay.
Unquestioning the suggesting, following their every word,
Becoming adept yet feeling inept, your own thoughts never heard
Perspiring, desiring it to be the shape you want it to be
Until one day you realize, to your surprise
You are the clay, and to your dismay
While you've been toiling, the oven of life's been slowly broiling,
Hardening the clay into a lump, a shapeless clump
Shaped by everyone but you.
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