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PMc May 8
My pen is leaking
ink pooling into my pocket protector
the one I’ve had since before the new math
My uncle gave it to me – I remember
it’s got the logo of his insurance company on it.
that and, now the ink stain.

Ink running through the cracks in the pocket protector
leaking where uncle’s meat thermometer pushed through tight plastic
staining a once yellow shirt

Stopping by the dry-cleaner for pick up
the vendor says she couldn’t get it all out
but it’s better than it was.
Hands me a small plastic sandwich bag filled with strips of paper
the size of those you see on magnets
for fridge poems

“Don’t know where these came from” she says, “****** near ruined my dryer
spinning around there – clogging up the air exhaust”

words……
I whisper under my breath

From the ink.  
The words in the pen
would not go unnoticed.

I pay her – grab my shirt, my jacket, my tie
grab the baggie of words
in no particular order
thank her
and with the welcome bell’s ding
I head into the street
a very satisfied customer

****** pen is still leaking by the time I get home
It’s leaking tears by now
tears that fill the ink well of my memory
dip and scribble dip and scribble

Thoughts almost painful
long forgotten
or so I thought
Last days on Brunswick Avenue
knowing I would have to return to school
emptying that huge street-facing bedroom
I got a lot of miles looking out of those windows
if I wrote a lot
I don’t remember
Late nights, very early mornings listening to
the hourly chime of that nameless clock
that made up the entire downtown Toronto skyline back in the day

The words that dotted the paper sometimes
sometimes made no sense
my friends politely remarking
“That’s good.  I like it” were unhelpful

Further future desperation wasn’t far
just need a receipt or a bar napkin or
a box from a Big Mac ripped into 4x2x1x2x4
whatever I could get my hands on
just trying to appease the leaking pen
from getting too far ahead of my regretful memory.

IOUs, shopping lists, debits to society
love poems, goodbye notes, “I miss you”
they’re all there, we just have to remember what they are

Words write themselves.  
The ink, the tears
the blood, the fridge magnets
have already formed the words.
I am the one with the ideas
when I meet a new lover or
fall out of favour with an “ex” – yet again or
attempt to describe three shades of orange or
when I want to remember to pick up pickles

They are stuck in the pen
until I am ****** good and ready
with the roll of the ball-point
to see where the words land this time.

drip
drip
drip
Written as part of a pandemic poetry group from Jun 2020.  We challenged one another to various formats and "themes".  I think this one was to "write about writing".  Alas, the pocket protector and the insurance company are my doing.
LC Apr 10
the feelings became an engraved key chain:
its grooves were made just for me.
I hid the key chain in my back pocket,
shielding it from the side eyes,
but when the people saw it,
they took out their own key chains,
and the designs were very similar.
now my key chain is in my hand,
and I show it whenever I want.
#escapril day 8!
Zane Gorham Mar 1
The chalky Cliffs of Dover crumble in my fist.
Tucked away neatly in my pocket.
I have the power to become a person completely in control.
The tension seething in my chest no longer.
All I need is the key.
A simple motion not readily accepted by the masses.
'Tis not we who wait for the dust to settle but for the dust to settle we.
The reuptake of life hidden but always near.
We care not for the hands that pass the life from person to person.
For they could be from the grimiest of grim and still our hands are cupped for their foul crooked benevolence.
We are gods and what is purity without the soot and **** and **** to define it.
Synthetic courage and emotional restraint what more could the people want.
Only a few care for the real me, the anxiety, the truth.
Why pander the rest when I have complete control within a plastic seal, tucked neatly in my pocket.
What's the point if I have to explain it... ZG
chang cosido Sep 2020
Someday doesn't mean reassurance -
a pocket for small , frail hopes.
Someday means someday will arrive.

Make her a dress.
With your own two hands.
Out of nothing and everything.

When someday comes,
make her beautiful
for yourself.
Where Shelter Jan 2015
bare it straight...

the knight-fool referenced here,
me, scrabbled, scrambled writer,
moat-surround builder,
petard hole-blower in walls of captivity.
letting those inside out,
letting those outside in...

all the beloveds from
ailments hurtful,
in and ex ternality
fearful of eternality

guise of knight errant,
salve and solve,
two pocket protectors,
needy, downtrodden, love-hurting,
slip inside and hide till ready
to come out on acceptable terms

entrapped, locked down and in,
show me the walls for to break,
make the solitary unobligatory
hands holding you will lead us,
all writ on clean new chance foolscap
open sourced coded for sharing

knock knock knock
come calling,
my calling...
to come...
I love cheap money

I love giving it away

cheap money is
that which you give
to the the brave ones....

not much of a poem

cheap
because it is the least expensive
way to justify your own existence
and better someone else's

someday I will write
actually share,
the poem long dusted on the bottom
of the pile entitled,

**Just Money**

a long tale of how I learned
the value of monetizing
happiness

but let us ask where shelter,
shelter is in the human embrace,
like I said,
not much of a poem,
more a good look
in the mirror

and the shelter of liking
what you see
J Hanover Dec 2019
Slightly warm mostly beige
This is what I wear today
Maybe stripes polka dots
Here I am at the spot

( chorus )
The laundromat's on fire
Even though the socks have no matches
Everyone's desire
Not to show off any patches

Mostly worn kinda frayed
The years are displayed
Think I found enough change
It's laundry day all the same

( chorus )
The laundromat's on fire
Even though the socks have no matches
Everyone's desire
Not to show off any patches
The joys of doing laundry. Original chorus circa 2014.
John H Dillinger Aug 2019
Pickpocketed

each pocket has a purpose
church bells shatter through the surface

the worthless circus sunday service
a procession past the pickled mirthless

dispersions of persons pass pews
hoping He accepts the time served, in lieu

and thus this pocket is purposed for you



At the masqurade parade all day
That preys on insecurity

youre sure to see a bargain,
sharking, armed with curiosity

but the cost is often hidden, lost
in a forest of desire, in a silk lined pocket

and this is where they keep your wallet



search for solace in a sound structure
then ruptured synapses, flayed fluster

rebuild it all, regard life's lustre
meander melancholy with what you can muster

place them in a pocket, each respective,
one for your lessons and one for perspective

as the pickpocket of fear plays with the reasoning detective
A bit of rhyming fun here with a few feelings expressed against some aspects of life completely biased and brazen.

Sew up those pockets people.
Priyam May 2019
So there's a pocket in my purse
Its unopened or maybe its cursed
Am I just indifferent or maybe I'm afraid
(I'll let you in a little secret)
It's where I keep my favorite blade

It's been in my company for quite some time
In the moments I chided, in the moments I chimed
I have always kept it close like a love another
(I don't even know how to say this)
Sometimes even closer than my very own mother

But I like how it feels on my soft skin
I carve through my teary eyes, a ****** grin
But sure I hope that I don't die
(I don't do it to **** myself)
It just gives me hope that the bad times will pass by

Its been a while since I have cried
I feel like a psychopath with no feelings to define
So I reach out for my blade in the purse to feel something
(I won't throw it away so soon)
It gives me joy to know that i can sense, even if its hurting.
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