Up to Me

Throughout life I have felt like red clay,
  Freshly dug out of Mother Earth’s womb.
Unable to do anything, do anything but wait for the patient hands to sculpt me into something fit for society;
  The opinions and ideals of those around me shaping me into something worthwhile.
  Freezing me in a cold stillness, bold yet subtle in a distant way.

Or maybe I am more like the blank canvas
  Plain and dull, till the perceived passions of someone else’s strokes sketch me out
  In terms that can be manipulated by a trick of light or the right frame of mind
  To be stared at as though it was me that was the object of desire.

Perhaps a blank note book.
  Pages and pages of almost genius, inches from perfection.
Open to the stabbing of a tear filled pen or a razor sharp truthful pencil, hoping to be read.
    And admired for someone else’s words.

Keep your ink, your crayons, your little knife of deceit!
Hell keep your honesty too!
From here on out I only care about my own thoughts of me.

I will be my own painter
  Coloring my world in my own joy.
I will be my own sculptor-
  My nimble fingers gathering the greatest parts of me
My own writer, penning my own destiny
  My words flowing like Poetry Rivers, describing me in my glorious details!

What did I ever need you for?