A potter gives clay its shape and form, I bake it in a fiery storm.

Follow me out of a maze; stray off me and you're lost; rain puddles on me.

You can be on it, hit it, miss it, or be one. What am I?

I take the clay that hands have spun, and bake it till its change is done. Behind my walls, the flames burn bright, turning fragile forms strong overnight.

I write on your paper in grey or black, when my point grows dull, a sharpener brings it back.