#pockets
deadend conversations
wealth to rot the heart
make a mind go insane
finite words of utter banal.
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 8:31 AM UTC
You, like silk cloth draped over life.
A perfect match for any occasion.
Me—an uncomfortable fit.
My pockets emptied.
All I am
are spare buttons
and loose change.
That drawer in the kitchen—
Where a tangle
of odds and sods.
A mismatched mixture
of nothings
with no connection,
exists.
But, should you stumble across me
on the off chance
that you might need me
in that moment—
Don’t hesitate.
Don’t think.
Slip on your reading spectacles.
Train your brightest lamp.
Try to find
where one part starts
and the part ends.
May 5, 2025
May 5, 2025 at 2:52 PM UTC
Lay that Magnum fire
6 shooter
So many people
Magum Fire
Blow all at once
Guide by shield
Move by sword
Precise an on Point G clock
Lay that Magnum Fire
Field of tulip an dandelions
Smoking God Packs
Holy Pacts
Gun residue by the fingertips
Through fingerprints
Voice a whole story
That Magum Fire
For hire your sire on squire
Fire fire fire
Magnum gunpoint
Ran the wrong pockets
Dont top it
Drop this newyork best sold
Trigger hold
Fold
Magnum Fire smoking G Packs
Got my Jean Pants
Rifle range interior design
Signed
Nov 9, 2023
Nov 9, 2023 at 6:37 PM UTC
unravel, untied, our love my love has died
it was yours then mine, but now it rests in pockets of time
pockets of sunshine, rack my memories to re-find
recollect your light, re-experience your mind
maybe if I hold on to it tight enough, the frequency i’ll be riding on
will re-attract you back, to re-tether our hands together again
maybe that's too idealistic, maybe that's against the laws of physics
maybe I am just as stupid as this dream is
maybe I am broken for a reason
I don't know, I just thought it was special
the most saturated jewel tones
I don't know, I just thought it was something
the most beautiful to the most unknown
Mar 27, 2022
Mar 27, 2022 at 8:37 AM UTC
I have spent
too many days and nights
on broken things
out of pocket expenses
given too freely
to those begging
for any amount of
someone else to get them by
I was spare change
jingling in hands
too full of nothing
to be so very heavy
@KNL
Jul 6, 2021
Jul 6, 2021 at 2:44 PM UTC
Hi
My name is pockets
and
I don't write poetry
I write soup kitchen fortune cookies
I write narcotic fueled nocturnes
I write speeches for the speechless
pornographic lamentations
questionable quotations
And a bunch of filthy words
But I don’t write poetry
Cause nothing I’ve ever said
has been that beautiful
Aug 28, 2020
Aug 28, 2020 at 7:41 PM UTC
there are so many
types of pockets,
especially for jeans.
my favorite is the “ticket pocket,”
that little pocket stitched
inside a bigger front pocket,
maybe also called a
“watch” pocket,
supposedly
a cowboy designation
for safeguarding
their chained pocket watch receptacle.
who ya kidding?
anyway, a second naming
more to my liking:
seems cowboys put their train ticket where they could easily
retrieve them as the conductor conducted himself properly,
asking each passenger after every stop to show his ticket.
so it came to be,
Levi gave us pockets of variety,
durable, baggy ones to
carry our jewels comfortably,
one for tightly ticket embracing,
and further inspired that
sewn on the hat of
every railroad conductor,
a russian motto,
Trust but Verify.
I myself use the ticket pocket for
my keys,
which in any other jeans pocket, movement
causes cruel and unusual pain,
but not if that huge bunch of jangling
instruments of torture are tightly tucked
in their own prison interior,
incapable of doing hot yoga or
any other stupid exercise requiring
Bo jingling jangling movement
Just don’t you dare ask me
what the purpose of each key be,
it is just a tortured secret for men
in the private parts of their soul,
to confess that keys carried
for three houses ago,
are a metallic proofs that men
are indeed as dumb
as women think they are...
show me a rusted lock somewhere,
I got an hour to try ‘em all
Jun 26, 2020
Jun 26, 2020 at 2:37 PM UTC
when i got to the top of the staircase
i half-expected to see you there
leaning against the wall
with your hands in your pockets
but here you are
sitting in a chair,
laughing
in my imagination.
Jun 4, 2020
Jun 4, 2020 at 9:12 AM UTC
I remember the taste of your lips.
I searched in panic
Trying to remember the last place
I put you.
Turning my pockets inside out
Conscious of the last time you were here
on my lips
Consciously knowing that I need you now.
It's been twenty-five minutes already
& I am craving the way you lick my lips.
I am in awe, your body pressed between my fingers.
My lips swallowed by your tongue.
I stand in silence.
Punished yet unpunished
The taste of your lips swirling against my lips
Patting my pockets then looking up
To see you've been in front of me the whole time.
Whether several seconds or several lifetimes
I am in constant protest.
If I were to lose you, consciously knowing that I need you now
Unconsciously knowing how much is left in you.
I stand in silence punished yet unpunished
Giving my lips to you
Until one of us parts
Mar 3, 2020
Mar 3, 2020 at 4:34 PM UTC
“Are you cold?”
“Yes”
“Put your hands in my pockets, it’s not weird.”
How is it that you can turn something so ordinary into something so intimate?
I may have put my hands in your pockets that night but you put your hands on my heart.
From that day on I gave you permission to put your hands in my pockets as well.
It’s not weird.
“Come here”
“That’s my pocket”
“Yeah, we are kind of known for those aren’t we?”
Have you ever noticed how no matter where you go that you can always find a pocket?
You may think that pockets were special to us but let me tell you, everyone has them.
From that day on pockets became my new favorite thing, especially when they were yours.
It’s not weird.
“Is everything okay?”
“I think we need a break.”
“Stop playing with your pockets and talk to me!”
How come everything that’s good in the world always has to come to such a bitter end?
I may not have been as important to you, but you and your stupid pockets became everything to me!
From that day on I looked for you and your pockets everywhere.
It’s not weird.
“Do you always skate with your hands in your pockets?”
“Just when you’re around.”
“Of course you would say that.”
Have you ever even noticed that I don’t wear jeans anymore, or that my jacket pockets stay zipped?
You may have seen that if you weren’t so focused on entertaining other girls.
From that day on pockets and everything related became the bane of my existence.
It’ not weird.
“Are you cold?”
“Don’t you remember? I’m always cold.”
“Put your hands in your pockets, it won’t hurt.”
How come people always try to simplify and eliminate the pain they’ve never felt?
I may not be the only girl you will ever be with but I promise, nobody will ever appreciate something as little as your pockets like me.
From that day on I ignored you and your pockets to the best of my broken ability.
“You didn’t come to my game.”
“Just put your hands in your pockets and go.”
“I’m sorry.”
Have you ever noticed how you only feel bad about the way you make others feel after you experience the hurt as well?
You may not think you did anything to hurt me but my heart breaks every time I look from your blue eyes to your blue jeans and their stupid pockets.
From this day on I refuse to let you and your pockets cloud up my mind and life.
It was always weird.
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 3:35 PM UTC
I put my hands in my pockets,
protecting
Whatever can be found inside
I found it!
It was a child in a small red house, and then an apartment, and then in a lamp...
3, 2, 1,
I Am the Genie.
You wished for my health,
You wished for me to stay,
And the last wish
You gave it to me!
But I am not your genie...
I belong to the child,
To the past, to the future... But most importantly,
To the wonderland.
Take your hands out of your pockets!
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 11:40 PM UTC
I hadn’t any dreams
In my hands
You sometimes hold
My wishes
Fell through
Holes in my pockets
I was very much empty and I
Wanted you to know
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 6:17 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
The She-angel that could make me sing out
My feelings to submission breaking
Down the walls where my heart resides,
Painting pictures in my pineal allowing
Me to give in with no sure measure of
Deceit,
She-angel listens to my words and even now it still it amazes my soul,
Jumping for joy and not in fear of being
Left behind,
Her accent gives me chills in the most
beautiful axis,
The world was never ready for you my angel,
I will walk to the ends of the earth with nothing to live for with a pockets of hopes that faded away in the fire where my trust got extinguished,
But with you my angel everything revived itself, I Thank you for that.
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 11:20 AM UTC
I was tied like a ribbon.
Tied to a silver coin
I followed it everywhere
It was survival
They tell you to do what you love,
But who is financing my dreams?
I only see one decision.
The silver coin.
The ribbon slowly tightening
Around my neck,
Starting to choke the choices
Out of me.
They tell you to do what you love,
But they only mean
The dreams that collect silver coins.
The dreams that fix massive dept.
So what am I to do?
My dusty pockets
And love of art
Leaving me at a crossroad.
I wish for a different world.
Where achieving your dreams
Wasn't a fantasy,
And I could paint words for a lifetime.
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 11:48 PM UTC
Don't sit there and laugh
I promise it's real
I'm nowhere near daft
But I have an appeal
Women have united
We held a caucus
It has been decided
We want deeper pockets
Not stitches of yarn
To create the illusion
Not fingertips only
Whole hand exclusion
Not pockets so small
They cause a contusion
Not 1/4 of whole
Causing wallet protrusion
I should not be coerced
To carry a purse
It's like we're accursed
pocket problems traverse
You get it right on dresses
But never on pants
I need to stress this
Dress to pant transplant!
You do it for males
All big and cozy
Put some wind in your sails
This is no time to mosey
Pocket Equality for all!
Across every brand
Divided we fall
United we stand!
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 1:28 PM UTC
She moved her hand from her pocket to his
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 4:24 AM UTC
I would greatly enjoy
Drinking a full bottle
Of blue sky, with
Cloud cubes.
And as a youngest
Quasi-only child
I have no basis
Upon which to babysit.
I keep a pocket-sized
Terrace with me
At all times
Purely for the flowers.
And it would be a
Jolly thing to have
An eight-year old
Dream come true.
On rare occasions
I wear dresses
And walk sedately
Through fields.
And once in awhile
The bird on my leg
Is a massive swallowtail
And tries to fly a feathery airplane.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 11:13 AM UTC
When I was a kid
I spent time alone
Probably more than my fair share
But it wasn't bad at first
It was liberating.
At first, I discovered myself
I discovered the universes that existed
At the pinpoint of my imagination
A true world of wonders
I remember tiny snippets of freedom
Long walks in the park with my hands tucked into my pockets,
Or my hair getting soaked from the rain when I'd walk home
Back then "on my own" was somehing I fancied
Like a childish crush
Where I only wanted it because,
Hell.
It made me feel good
It made my heart pound
When I could spend just a second listening to my breath
But now. I've learned the consequences
The damage I've done to myself
From spending that much time
Alone.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 11:49 PM UTC
I picked up a collection of your poetry
and it didn't take all night to read
You talk to yourself a lot.
I am now empty more so for knowing
how empty you tell yourself you are.
there is a fifteen minute cab ride
or a 45 minute bus ride
that makes the most distance of this city
but I would walk to you at any hour.
Regardless of any change
I may carry in my pockets,
there will always be an open hand
for you if you would take it
Somewhere my mother shares her bed with nobody
after being twice robbed of her covers
by the same man
she has never returned to that softness.
somewhere else my father sleeps with himself
and cries for having held on for so long
There is a grace we don't allow ourselves for letting go.
you need not be in love to hurt,
you need not forgive to be alone.
I think you are everything I reach for,
though for fear my throat is empty of your echoes
I read your poetry
and some nights I ride the bus home
in the other direction.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 5:27 AM UTC
As the sound of her footsteps diminish in proportion to her figure
her shadow lengthens across the street
The horizon eats everything and I am always on the inside
from that same hunger I yell, please.
/
She told me a secret
Now I make maps from empty pages
and hide my poetry in her
I believe in nothing else
/
In the emptiest hours of evening
through an open window to your kitchen
stray animals are lured by the scent of flavours they've never tasted
and I knock on your door hoping you are not home
/
In spite of the chemicals
and circumstances that we are
I kiss the stars and lose my place
upon the pages you are writing
/
I long to be collecting
on your tongue
like snowflakes
like secrets
/
I see now
how
after the third try
a genie fails to complete
what comes naturally
in your arms
/
childhood is a secret we'll remember someday;
for the heroes we were, for the monsters we saved
/
hope everything falls out of your pockets
hope you arrive at the gates empty handed
hope they can forgive you for arriving empty
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC
Why do I still love you?
Anytime we hang out you're always gone
by the end of the night.
You never come home with me
always eager to leave,
more willing to find your
way into someone
else's hands,
than remain in mine.
I can't get enough.
You thrive on the chase,
your bountiful
promises are empty
like my pockets,
but I'm only a few days
away from seeing
you again
and I will never get enough of you.
You help me when you
arrive in two weeks time
and hurt me when you
leave sometimes only
staying for a few days.
My pockets miss your promises.
Your debits are hard to control
and your credits constantly
leave me seeking more
adoration.
I buy your lies.
I want you to love me
in the same way I don't
want to love you. I only
chase you because it's
expected,
but I want my soul back.
Why do I still love you?
I can't get enough
and I will never get enough of you.
My pockets miss your promises
I buy your lies,
I want my soul back.
A man's worth shouldn't
in (lie) you.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 10:17 PM UTC
I carry many things. All of them serve a specific purpose and are equally important.
I carry some things to take life...
A rifle, a pistol, grenades, and a knife.
I carry some things to save life...
A bullet resistant vest, a 9 line, and a medical kit.
And I carry some things to guide me when I'm lost...
A glow star and a heart shapped rock.
The glow star for when my path is dark and I've lost all light. It will always illuminate my path and guide me back.
The heart shapped rock etched with "Joy." To remind me I'm loved and when I'm scared, to remember you are my rock.
These things are my tools. But most importantly, these things are my way to fulfill my promise to you.
To always come home to you and hold you in my arms.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC