Hand Made
Silent are the bones I destroy,
Who must wait helplessly.
While I hammer my body down
Into the "well designed look."
I keep chiselling at myself
Watch flesh drop off
Like unwanted bits of wood,
Needing to be gone so the sculpture is perfect.
Precious ivory cushions me,
Takes he brunt.
It is my armour -
Yet those who let their bones pertrude
Are more breakable.
I am good at this craft,
Taking m anger out on the sculpture
Until I create a masterpiece -
My bones cry quietly …
I turn to this craft when I have nothing
Working myself to the tired hour,
Eyes bulging with tears.
I skilfully smash, design -
My bones pain
But there isn't even a whisper ...
University information
CRICOS Code: 00126G
