The Clay Dragon

The wet clay makes a gross sound.

I squeeze it in my inexperienced fingers, 

attempting to form some shape,

waiting for inspiration to strike.

 

Finally, I see it.

The lumps have chosen to become a dragon,

of sorts.

I pinch and smooth over the creature,

its features becoming more distinguishable 

by the moment.

 

I keep working until finally, it’s here.

The dragon has come into existence.

It’s hideous.

It’s the ugliest little dragon I’ve ever laid eyes on,

but it’s mine,

and my affection for it outweighs mine 

for all of my classmates.

 

I name it Christopher,

Because I’m just as bad at naming as I am sculpting,

and take it home,

where he sits on my nightstand,

guarding the room,

warding off spirits

with his lumpy little form.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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