Clay Pots

Soft clay to start,

With a pure heart;

Yet then the old,

Mold and scold,

From what they’ve been told.

Creating an ego like hell,

Where we become like a shell;

Empty inside,

Where our soul tries to hide.

As our ways then set,

Many try to forget,

That once we were pure;

Until we had to endure,

Being told we were immature;

Instead of first becoming secure,

In constantly seeking something more.

Innocence and bliss,

Are not found in the abyss;

So how can we miss,

It all for a kiss.

Use common sense,

It’s just a defense;

Finding another’s soul,

As we don’t feel whole.

Instead of giving in completeness,

We see it as a weakness;

Not having a sweetness,

Must be an incompleteness.

Yet this then binds,

As souls entwined;

Never to find,

That which wasn’t assigned.

So constant craving,

Thinking we are saving;

When really we are bathing,

Inside our own scathing.

Not that it all has to go wrong,

Yet look at the song;

Seeking light from broken pots,

Is how we can rot,

And it happens allot.

Like a teapot,

That constantly needs filling;

Whilst the liquid is spilling.

A continual billing,

Compromises unwilling;

The light slowly chilling,

As we no longer find it fulfilling.

Looking for safety in others,

When we are only lovers;

Whereas light comes from above us,

Instead of from one another’s.

It may feel warm,

As we slowly conform;

Yet that wasn’t why we were born.

Instead inside this container,

Here as a trainer;

Unconditional entertainer,

Couldn’t be much plainer.