Poetry

Who defines us?
Are our parents
The lone scupltors
Of our identities?
Or are we born in
An inescapable mold?

Are we like stone?
Once a chip is made
Will it ever come out?
Does everyone we meet
Carve us into who
They think we are?
Or do people's impressions
Have no effect?

Are we like clay?
Are we sensitive to
Even the slightest pressure?
Can we be squished
And restarted at
The will of our sculptors?

Who would be our sculptor?
Our peers? Our parents?
The people we talk to?
In the end, do they
Make us into lumps
Of clay, and chipped
Hunks of stone?