Clay Figure

Standing here in Art class,
Messing with the clay.
The assignment, simply: "Make clay masks,"
Sounds like it should be okay.
As I roll the clay around,
I can't find what to make.
So I look at the clay;
As if it can tell me.
I start to think that my BRAIN-
Or at least what's left of it-
Has turned to clay.
A gray, easily molded,
Piece of solid-
Or in my case,
Most likely evaporated-
Matter.
My mind then suddenly starts the wheels,
Whirring and buzzing.
As all of a sudden,
Ideas come at me!
Speeding like a flash of lightening!
Maybe I should make a character,
From one of my favorite shows!
Or maybe an unknown animal,
Dashing through the woods!
Maybe a hawk!
Maybe a fox!
Maybe a cat!
Maybe a rat!
So many things,
The possibilities are endless!
Five minutes ago-
My mind was blank.
Now-I can't get ideas out of my head!
Before-I couldn't think of anything.
I now think of everything!
I couldn't think of ideas-
And now I can't decide!
I finally make my choice;
Out of overflowing options.
I start shaping a head-
A body!
Adding details and accessories along the way-
Here and there.
As I finish up,
And take a step back,
I get a good look at my finished product.
Was it what we were assigned?
Is it a mask?
No!
It is none of these.
It is something more.
As I study it,
Realization dawns on me!
I may not have created a mask,
From the clay which my hands held;
But I have made my own-in a way.
The outside image of the real me-
Not the gray matter which I molded-
Is just an image.
It's a lie!
It's not the true me.
What I have made,
With my amount of clay,
Is the real me!
In it, I see what I wish to do-
Later in life.
Not living a lie,
But being true to myself!
The clay form in front of me,
Is a proud Native American.
Proud of her heritage,
And true to herself!
She is also an archaeologist!
Carefully discovering hidden objects,
From past ancient history,
In the dirt beneath her feet.
The image in clay,
Standing before me,
Is my true self!
Who I want to be!
The clay figure is me!
But it shall never happen,
In my world of make-belive.
Still, I can hope,
Can't I?
I can dream of what I wish to become.
Hopes...and dreams,
Are all that I have left.
Can it be that the clay figure,
Standing on my desk,
Is who I will become?
I can only hope...
And dream...
That someday,
I'll turn into the person I want to be.