i’m sorry

a little misshapen,
my ball of clay is.
it’s small. it’s lumpy.
it's easy to miss.
spun round in circles
from morn until noon
it's easily dizzy,
and twirls out of tune.
a nick. a scar.
a faded square there.
left lonely one night,
it couldn’t quite fare.
like earthquake, crumbled
in a stranger's hand.
masterpieces, clearly,
never go as planned.
thrown in the fire,
my clay lost its shine.
but i won’t apologize,
this clay is still mine.

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