Clay

Are we at the end

Or at the start?

Neither and both I suppose

Stalling in some strange middle part

I want to form

The perfect thing to say

But life's not perfect

And words aren't clay

I suppose that means something

I suppose I should know

What's going on at this point

But there's so much space to grow

Because I'm not That now

What I thought I would be

Or who I was back then

I'm still finding me

Doubt I'll ever stop

Does anyone, I wonder?

Aren't we all volatile shapes

Constantly forming whilst being torn asunder 

And all those little things

That terrified me at the start 

Are what I'll miss the most

Transitioning into this next middle part

And all the hard things

I told myself wouldn't last

Are things I'm not ready

To let slip into the past

Because it was just two short

Yet extensive years ago

That I was so nervous 

And trying not to let it show

And now . . . I'm just here

Letting it all sink in

Not quite ready for an end

But more than ready to begin

Not quite knowing who I am

Uncertain who I will be

But content with the knowledge

That I like forming me

So as we come to a close

And as we come to a start

I'll move onward

Roaming through this next strange middle part