Despite cracks, it still holds so much within.
Wonder why I can relate to it.
Like an antique it is displayed for musing,
Each of us is a mud pot, a perfect misfit.
We take in, we pour, we hold at capacity.
The more we are worked, better we become.
We may seem tough but we have our fragility,
hold my hand if you are numb.
We stay quiet but scream when broken,
there is a limit to the depth of our fall.
To do away with the vile inside, we are shaken,
It may be water or maybe alcohol.
Sun only makes us strong
while winter motivates us to stay warm.
When empty, we give beats to song,
we are like mud pots, an art form.
And then one day when dry and crispy,
we break to a force we used to bear once.
Due to the beatings over the years
we all succumb, making place for the new ones.