Clay can be molded
Can become anything
that the artist wants it to be
But what if clay wants to be something else?
What if clay wants to just be clay?
And what would happen
if the clay fell into the wrong artist's hands?

What are we?
Are we clay that society molds?
Are we our government’s puppets,
Doing their dirty work?
Are we mindless robots,
Programmed to obey?
Are we really not allowed to think for ourselves,
Without criticism and prejudice
In a country that claims to be free?

If society says it’s all right
That they choose when prisoners are sent to the electric chair,
And if kids should be drafted to war without choice,
Then why do they say that it’s not all right
For women to choose whether or not to have a baby,
Or for someone to be attracted to the same sex,
Or for someone to choose to remain sitting during the pledge of allegiance?
Is this really freedom?

Who will finally stand and say,
“You can’t mold me. I am me!”
Where are the words when you need them
To deny the lies that they feed them?
To stand up, to take charge
To show who you really are?
Does it begin with pen?
Does it begin with words?
Does it begin with the thoughts
That nobody heard?