Pockets of Misery
I stuff my pockets with misery and contempt,
overloading their contents, pleasure exempt.
I fill the dark spaces with sadness and dread,
overexerting the capacity, till all hope is dead.
I shove bits of hatred, and pieces of despair,
into tightly bound pockets, I callously wear.
I force fists of fury, into perfect folds of misery,
massive bulging indignation, that only I can see.
I line its gruesome insides, with terror and pain,
thrusting handfuls of vanity with bouts of shame.
I lunge towards its innards, like a thrusting rocket;
these dark grisly holes, inside miserable pockets.