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.