Poetry – Teapot

I sit quietly in the room, awaiting the meeting,
Hoping to serve my purpose or risk a beating,

The people all enter in their clamorous ways,
Some pausing to stare, others still in a daze,

After a noisy discourse they all take their seat,
Their talking continues, though it never did cease,

Not long thereafter my services are required,
Politely I answer like a pawn to their desire,

Shaken, swirled, and all but hastily thrown,
My destinations random, choices not of my own,

Around the room I spin, my insides distraught,
Never treated with grace like the toy I am not,

I am repeatedly drained, my insides sucked out,
Then it all begins again the moment I shout,

When will this end, have my owners no heart,
How can they use and abuse me, a work of fine art,

Time matters not, sleepless nights or early ‘morn,
To them I’m just a tool, my rest would draw scorn,

Even still I go willingly, for it is my purpose to fill,
I just wish they’d be careful so that I do not spill,

To my task I must go, I’d rather be busy than not,
Such a whirlwind adventure, the life of a teapot.