I Think

I've been moulding myself

into the person

[I think]

I want to be.

With each stroke that I make

the clay hardens:

[I think]

I'm too late.

And as I try and budge

the heavy sludge

[I think]

this happiness is becoming forced.

But if my clay was to dry

in its natural form

[I think]

it looks hideous.

So I continue to make

this outer shell, which

[I think]

will disguise my imperfections.

I think, I think, I think...

I think I've lost who I am.