There are better things to worry about
Than if I am destined to spend this life
Alone with my thoughts, or if someone
Else will help make me who I perhaps
One day shall be. (Always, yet never
Again myself?) Is this it?
Or shall I be moulded like a jelly for
A children's party...
Or, more like, a lump of hard clay that
Won't yield to a gentle touch and needs
Soaking for days in tepid water 'til it's
Slippery and malleable?
There are better things to worry about
But I watch out for the cracks,
And soak the edges once in a while,
Just in case.
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