The Calling

Tried my hand at many a thing

But nothing to perfection did I bring
Is there no quality of mine?
Which would bring my name to shine

With heart and passion for them I toil
But all the arts from me recoil
There is nothing that ever means to stay
Wish I had a calling, if I may

I’m nothing but merely a part of a throng
All this fighting never made me strong
Trying to justify why I was born
It breaks me to pieces, I feel so torn

Wondering since the very first day
Am I nothing but a piece of clay?
If so, there is nothing more that I desire
Than to be hardened by this life of fire

I wish to ask again, if I may
What’s my calling, tell me I pray
Would I rather paint or dance or write or pray
Or should I just not bother and get on with the day