first day of ceramics, again

today i trembled thinking about making pottery as i have never trembled at the thought of writing poetry.

that to sit at a table to write always felt necessary
as sitting at the wheel feels necessary
but that with writing, there is always a weight

a weight that is different from the heft of a
new ball of clay, waiting to find form

a weight that pulls at old pains trying
to make them into beauty

make what hurts into something beautiful

or just make
something beautiful

always,
beauty,
always,
art,
but what kind,
what form,
which is the
one

.
.
.
.
.
.

i feel as though
i have betrayed
the poet

.
.
.
.
.
.

what do you do when
who you are makes
you question who
you are

.
.
.
.
.
.

try hard
at all
of it

try hard

realize

it is all
art

and it is
all you

and you are
allowed
you

always

in whatever
form.

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