in my pockets are grains of hope, i keep my hands in my pockets when it gets cold. I think it's good to keep my hands warm, maybe I think it's bad to even let my pockets hold my cold hands. Disengage from the colorful writing, my hope sits upon my intellect and my actions are based upon it. In my flower accessorized tote bag holds my potential. Zipped up tightly and only taking the items out around it. I see how much volume it takes up in my bag, defiant when someone tells me to take it out and use it. Maybe naive to not understand how much of it is held in my bag. My bag is never far and always clutched to my side. Maybe i should empty my pockets and clean out my bag to witness the things i've kept inside for so long.
i have no clue