conflict

have i somewhere in me urned for this confliction:
i step carfully, with intention and am behind bars:
what i want now i know is a reflection of what i got
and with my desires id be distraught
simply put
discouraged at the clay table
what i mold i want gold and
mud formed bowls
reflect my mind to die
style old
maybe thats the artistic side
to scrounge nickles for gas
to drive fast past the police
like licence again will feel free
so i wait out the dieing side
so when dining i admire mine
taste whats gold