Dear Mr.Potter, mind if I ask you.
Do you weep, cry out, for your many pots?
Your hands bloody blistered broken bruised, but you knew.
You spun the wheel, and delicately smoothed away all spots
Shaped and design your creations in your beautiful image,
The kiln dwells in the fire of your heart
You painted their inheritance and lineage.
Your words, spirit hidden within the art.
Dear Mr.Potter, can I raise a question?
Are you unable to learn a lesson?
You push the fact that your pots are pure perfection.
Yet they are riddled with cracks of transgressions
Dear Mr.Potter, you should have destroyed the pots you are not proud of.
They are undeserving of your love.
YOU ARE READING
Wasted Ink
PoetryThe mediocre stylings of an amateur poet. Composed of Personal thoughts, feelings, and questions all come together in poetry form.
