The Talking Pot

Can the pot say of the potter
"He knows nothing"?
Well, obviously not.
Unfortunately we have a problem,
                                                   I am a talking pot

   I am sick to my stomach on you wheel,
                                                   spinning hard and fast.
   I've never enjoyed the fairground
   "How long does this ride last?"
   I know I can't spin out of control, but
       it's not my control I'm in
   I'm held firmly between your hands
   which, I should find comforting
        And yet,
                there's this pressure
                   as you dig your fingers deep
                   as you mould, shape, smooth and form
                   it makes me want to weep.
   
    It hurts when you touch my cracks God
         they've been there so long,
    I'd rather that we just started over, let's just ditch the lot!
          I hate the bits your working on
    but the rough, jagged edge too
    yet you seem to have made them intentionally
                                 I really don't get you.

You delight in this pot?
You think I'm useful?
A work in progress. A work of art
Unique and beautiful

I know that even they
         will need some time on your wheel some day
But to tell you the truth I'd rather be
   a plate, a vase or some other crockery.
Help me to come to terms with who I am
        more than that
                      Help me love me.