pockets are for all the little things,
pennies and paper clips,
tissues and rings,
treasure and trash,
buried under piles of cash.
pick pocketers find gold,
snatched up in their hold.
but in my pockets they find feelings that I tried to hide,
from the hunting eyes of society.
the feelings weigh to much,
and the pocket slowly dies,
now little rips claw at the seams,
shinning like moon beams,
and I watch as my feelings fall out into other people's pockets.
they now stole my only treasure I ever had,
reading me like a chest with no lock.
like secrets-feelings don't belong where they can be stolen
they belong in the strongest pocket of all-the heart,
where the thoughts are pumped like blood giving me life,
and by placing them where you can not feel them,
they are open for the world to steal.
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