In his hands,

He bore a piece of clay,

Which was waiting patiently to be made

Creativity swam in his brain,

With his delicate touch,

It was sculpted,

Formed into a piece of art,

Inspiration straight from the bottom of his heart

He made it his own,

With an outer mould

According to the sketches formed in his mind,

He shaped the clay,

From the inside to the outside,

A masterpiece now beaming in the light

You,

My friend,

Are the art of his dream

Don't bother what they say of you,

And your little crack-lines too

For the potter has sculpted you so true,

Into something unique.