Here I sit.
I want to move, yet I'm completely powerless.
Imprisoned by myself, I'm yours to shape, sculpt, cut and destroy.

I'll bend to whatever you do.
Unable to harden in the sun, there's something wrong with me.

Fickle, useless, I'm everyone's project,
Ever changing, never improving.
Eventually you'll grow bored and throw me away,
But that's nothing new, since I'm faulty.

It's fun to break me and shape me into what you want, until I'm perfect (broken).

And the cycle continues,
Again and again, never ending.

But, I'm only clay. It's what I'm meant for.

Am I perfect yet?