Clay dust in the air, records on low,
Hands on the wheel, see where the rhythm goes.
Every groove’s a lesson, every crack’s a clue—
The sculpture don’t know it’s art ’til you’re through.

Started as a lump with no direction,
Life kept carving out its own correction.
Chisel of time, hammer of doubt,
Knocked off the pieces that held me out.
I tried to stay smooth, but the grain got deep,
Pressure makes pattern, that’s how forms keep.
No sketches here, just instinct play,
The masterpiece don’t rush its clay.

I’m just shapin’, shapin’,
In the hands of the days that I’m facin’.
Every line, every dent, every glaze I’ve worn —
Still in the kiln of becoming reborn.

Spin that wheel, metaphor in motion,
Balance the slip with a dose of devotion.
Life’s my studio — messy but kind,
Every misfire rewires the mind.
Critics say “rough,” I call it “real texture,”
Flaws are the frame for a deeper architecture.
Even Dada had its logic half-bent —
Imperfection’s just design with intent.

I’m just shapin’, shapin’,
In the hands of the days that I’m facin’.
Every chip, every mark, every line I’ve drawn —
Still in the kiln of becoming reborn.

See, I’m the sculptor and the stone,
Molding myself, breaking bone.
Cast in bronze or left in clay,
Either way, I hold my say.
Art ain’t neat — it’s fingerprints,
The proof that touch and truth make sense.

Keep shapin’, shapin’,
All these hands of fate I’m chasin’.
One day the cracks will catch the light,
And I’ll see the work was always right.

I sign it with breath, not ink.
Masterpiece? Maybe.
But it’s still drying,
And that’s the beauty, I think.

They built empires out of silence,
Painted over wounds with gold.
But you can still hear the truth
In the cracks of the mould.
Every wall hums with memory,
Every statue hides a scream —
But clay remembers hands
That tried to shape the dream.

We were carved from resistance, not permission,
Voices pressed into stone by omission.
They called it order — we called it cage,
Our breath still echoes through every age.
Rights to stand, to shape, to see,
The right to self-determination, equality.
We oppose the chisels of control,
Oppression of the spirit, occupation of the soul.
Systemic chains dressed up as law,
Still we sculpt justice from the flaws.
This isn’t just rebellion — it’s restoration,
The art of breaking imperial narration.

We rise from dust, from stone, from pain,
Each crack a chorus that whispers our name.
Peace won’t come through exclusion or fear —
Only through justice, equality clear.
From silence to song, from shadow to light,
We’re sculpting our freedom through the long night.

Old buildings lean with untold stories,
Columns built on someone else’s glories.
We inherit their ghosts, but not their rules —
We rebuild truth with broken tools.
They tried to whitewash every face,
Called domination a “sacred place.”
But art don’t lie — it testifies,
Against every wall that colonized the skies.
Anti-racist rhythm, human tone,
We fight for the rights that were always our own.
From the rubble of lies, we design again,
A world where justice wears every skin.

No more marble gods of exclusion,
No more thrones built on illusion.
We are the architects of a new day,
Healing the fractures they left in our clay.
True peace, true safety, can only be born
Where no one’s erased, no one’s torn.
We don’t rise to rule — we rise to mend,
The sculpture of truth will never bend.

We rise from dust, from stone, from pain,
Each crack a chorus that whispers our name.
Peace won’t come through exclusion or fear —
Only through justice, equality clear.
From silence to song, from shadow to light,
We’re sculpting our freedom through the long night.

This is for the hands that refused to break,
For the clay that cracked but did not forsake.
For every voice that trembled, then roared —
For every truth they tried to ignore.
We are art in motion,
We are history undone.
The sculpture of truth
Is still being spun.