My fate

It is about me and my utensils

I see them everyday

They are my mates

I deal with them every everyday

They are my fate.



They sometimes quarrel with me

Though they never talk

They move from here to there

But they cannot walk.



They fill every stomach

Never ask for any buck

I can even see my face in them

With a bit of luck.



They are the beauty of their place

The charm hidden inside

If kept squeaky clean

They shine with pride.



What am I talking about

Not pen or pencil

If you still have doubt

They are my kitchen utensils.