I mark my hands into the clay
to form something out;
If I may
ask, wether it will dry out?
I am always so filled with doubt...
Yet, I persist to work
knowing, that I am considered a dork,
without much to give to the land.
I am thankful for my hand.
Thinking of my next plan
perhaps, to find a new fan,
Though, I'll most likely fail,
forced, to always inhale
doubtful thoughts and motion;
As I come forth with a new notion.
