On the Potter's Floor
The father molded me,
built me to perfection.
He fired me in a kiln,
and covered me for protection.
I took it all for granted,
threw myself on the ground.
My broken pieces became stepped on,
my heart was never found.
I felt the blood drip slowly,
of the ones that didn't see.
They didn't know what they had done,
how they kept crushing me.
I was left on the potter's ground,
felt so alone.
No one even noticed,
how my tears had flowed.
I felt the potter's hand now,
pick me up from the floor.
He pieced me back together,
made me better than before.
Copyright © Louise Picek | Year Posted 2006
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