Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sanjana Apr 25
Shouldn’t I have four of them?
Instead, I am stuck with two that barely fit my thumbs
I think my hands are going numb

Welp
300 full shelves
None of them actually help

Small pockets
Cause I’ve got a socket
Playing with a locket, that can’t put it in my pocket

Where do I put my pad I'm being serious
This is a completely ridiculous period.
I feel everyone looking at me, I'm point-blank furious
Because now, all the guys are curious

What the hell?
Style over utility - very well
All the girls know, but no one ever tells

My buddy has 4 inches and plug
Got some that can fit 4 bags of drugs-s-s?
With his Nike airs, and his no good hair
His Levis don’t fit that snug
#relatable
This is ridiculous, we are in the 21 century and we still can't figure out women's wear. WE NEED POCKET SPACE TOO! I mean we're the ones who actually have to care around our "supplies" period
Dakota Gavin Jan 15
“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.
Debbie Brindley Aug 2018
My heart is breaking
Can you not hear
****** tears wept silently
Today
Life's to hard to bare
Through shattered shards
pockets of sadness
seep in
darkness creeps deeper
under my skin
Run from these feelings
but go where
My heart is breaking

This life's Harsh Lesson
Well yeah

IT'S HERE

In my face
Poking holes in my personal space
It hurts so bad when unable to fix
When life throws tragedy
into the mix
My heart is breaking
What can I do
Nothing
But be here
beside you
Feeling sad
CK Baker Sep 2018
there’s a network
of vigilance
around the guarded
causeway
of walla walla
the stacked cinders
smoking rails
(and weezers)
leave nothing
but black hood
fate

gray halls
and razor scrawls
mark the hellion crust
abandoned overtures
and dead fill
cloud the horror
and retribution
of this hell hole

bloaters and skin heads
(with wretched memoirs)
shout incessantly
from the
second floor
adolphus greely
reading over the
rights of nantucket
and banging his head
on the bent
steel bars

pockets pinched
and tumblers
dangling,
the stone walls
soften...
a seminal moment
crosses the roo house
as mother mary
and the good
painted warrior
loosen a
finely tuned grip
Jordan Rowan Dec 2015
With the red lights in my eyes
And the gray haze in the sky
With the fire red reflecting back
The neon skin distracts me from where I am
And where I should be
In the winter clear, I sit
And I'm sick of it

As the snow falls on cars
On pedestrians and bars
Wrapped in pea-coats and ***
Under the foggy winter sun I slowly stroll
With a woman in my soul
Like a gypsy king and queen
In a lucid fever dream

Up in the offices and desks
With stress in their chests
These people think of home
While their lovers are alone and stuck with screens
Like windows into scenes
They thought money could buy
As they drift and die

Pouring out from the walls
Of worship chapel halls
With hands in their pockets
Stealing trinkets and lockets to give to the men
Who promise the end
But all will be right
If you pay the right price

From the streets of gods
That will one day rot
Under our wandering feet
When we longer speak but are just memories
Passed on like a disease
On death, I've made my peace
Until then, let me be free
laura Apr 2018
Spent all my money on comfy camo clothes
Diors and Docs
and none of them have pockets
for you

would’ve spent it trying to get to you, get me out the friendzone
but i’m good, the gleam
of spring rain incites the wetness
and half drear to outshine

but i’m doing me and making each day
mine
8)
Bella Jul 2018
I Send my words hurling into your airway like swords
I bite off your tongue with every sharp response my body conjures
I have every witty comeback on speed dial to drill into your spine
The way your gays drilled into mine Pull old pennies from my pockets and throw them into your eyes
So you may not look at me the way you have for so long
You're are barely worth my pennies anyways
Here's a donation to your sorry ***
How about I grasp your neck, at just the right spot, just hard enough, to crush your voice box
To dwindle your air pipe just a little
So you cannot throw those trash comments at anyone else
How about I crack each of your fingers
Push them deep into your pockets
So that you can't feel anything without remembering me
You look at me like a mannequin in the window of your favorite retail store
You try yo put a price on what I'm worth
Maybe you can try me on
Throw me on the floor
Grab another
How about I tattoo my name on your chest
So that you cannot take off another piece of clothing
Take off another girl
Throw them in the floor
And not remember me
You will never throw me on the floor again
For I am permanently burned into your chest
How about I burn off each hair on your body
One at a time let it Sizzle down and sear the skin
Let each tiny poor feel the pain one at a time over and over and over again
Until you are left, raw

This
Is the day I speak back when you catcall me from across the street
Andrew Rueter Nov 2017
We are a puzzle with missing parts
That is why we make art
It is a healing start

We are all dream chasers
Until pencil meets eraser
Until boat meets glacier
Reality we must face her
When we sacrifice imagination
For societal integration
We search for placation
In lonely play stations
And through vacation
We experience migration
When the results are doubtful
And the response a drought mold
Because people are skeptical
Until there's a shiny scepter sold
Then you're put on a pedestal
And have your pecker pulled
By various industry tools
Loading you like a mule
With expensive jewels

Art must be the only motive
Not climbing any totem
Because once you're dead
Your art can still be read
Audiences may still be fed
But there's a frivolous influence
So you must be vigilant and prudent
To cut that from your life
So art may be your wife
That works to end strife
Yet that kind of help
You can't put on a shelf

I strive to make my art timeless
Though my pockets are dimeless
We live in a world of depression
That carries the risk of regression
My art could help push past it
Now that would be classic
Can be found in my self published poetry book “Icy”.
https://www.amazon.com/Icy-Andrew-Rueter-ebook/dp/B07VDLZT9Y/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Icy+Andrew+Rueter&qid=1572980151&sr=8-1
Caro Jun 2016
On the tip of my tongue you burned like hot coffee,
With a hit of my blunt you’ve undone my lofty,
made me a softy,
I wont forget.

Denim jacket leaning down, you’ve got room in your throat,
You’ve got words in your coat,
Pockets full of notes.

Ink on your arms that wrap, wrap around me,
Words pushing on your teeth like braces,
Laces,
Up your shoes that walk all around me,
I won't forget.

Maybe whisper it now or tell me tomorrow.

Denim jacket leaning down, tippy toes to kiss your nose.
You’ve made me a softy,
I won’t forget.

Sweet and simply say it from behind those curtains,
Smoke in your nose from my fire lungs,
Stain my breath with your words,
Blessed syllables,
I won’t forget.
Emmanuella Nov 2018
"I can’t figure it out.” She said.
“I like cigars,
and pretty dresses and crossing my legs.”
She paused,
then continued,
“And I like smoking cigars in pretty dresses while crossing my legs.”
She uncrossed them,
then crossed them again.
One smooth limb over the other.
Just like that.

“But I never seem to have a lighter on hand.
Could you— sir,
please light my cigar?”
“You see, I have no pockets to hold such things and my purse…
Well,
You’ve confiscated that, haven’t you?”

“Thanks.” She breathed,
and inhaled,
and exhaled;
Sluggish wisps of smoke dissipating into the air.
Just. like .that.

“I didn’t know L'homme was into women who smoke cigars in pretty dresses while crossing their legs", She said.
“I mean, how was I to know?
I only noticed him noticing me.
It was probably the way my hair was tousled like so,
Or how my lipstick shone a deep, dangerous rogue,
Or the way I sipped at my champagne…
That made him walk over.”

“But I never asked him to light my cigar
Or comment on my dress…
Or stroke my legs.
So when I whacked him up top over the head with my glass,
I bet he never expected it to shatter and split his skull like so.
He dropped so sudden, sir. I…”
Another ringlet of smoke, a sigh, an uncrossing and crossing of legs again.
“I had no clue,
what else to do,
But to sit still in my pretty dress, with my legs crossed, smoking my cigar trying to figure out...
Just how I'd committed ******.”
"She's a dangerous woman...
Who can ****,
Just with her *** appeal".
How can I see you yet never go Blind
As Tradition and Heart seek to acclaim?
I carry no Surveys; But keep in mind
A Friend such as you has naught to explain
Sweet and Sour Words not; Joy discovers Joy
And Celebration does reward the Humble
Your Grin is shy by your arms; As a Toy
Compare a Fattened Bee to a Bumble
Trust is falling in love with Pockets. True,
Digging deep you reach Wisdom by the Card
I suggest you shuffle; Then Five Trinkets
Spell out the Sum of who you really are:
Simple. Gay. Serene. Trustsworthy. Beauty.
All locked in your Chest to open when ready.
#hrushby
For all the earth in the world,
For the varied chunks,
shapes and shades
of brown, keep an eye out!

There, somewhere in the dirt,
Next to the writhing worm,
Gasping at pockets of sunlight,
Green life ruminates, and
pushes, pushes up,
through the soil,
intrepid, unlikely.  
It abandons it's old husk house,
what little safety it knew,
and, daring to dream,
thrusts itself into existence,
and feels the day's cooling kiss,

a multi cellular masterpiece,
when yesterday, there was only
dirt.
I’m beautiful
Or so you tell me
My hair is in a bun
That adequately
Reflects how I
Have not showered since yesterday
My face is bare
With all my impurities
All of my blemishes
My eyebrows are overgrown and bushy
My skin leaks of oil like sloppy pizza
Nature lazy like my bun
The teeny tiny hairs
Behind my ears are loose
My glasses that were once perched perfectly on the bridge of my nose
Are now smudged and lopsided
I really don’t believe you
I think my thighs
Look like hacky sacks that are running low on beading  
My lips look like paper
When folded hamburger style
My eyes are miniscule on my ginormous face being ****** in by the mass of my cheeks
I’m wearing an EPCC shirt from 1960s
Grey shorts
Pink socks
No makeup
but you say I’m beautiful
I don’t believe you
Until you slip your hands in my pockets
And tell me,
“You have pockets”
With the same smile on your face
I wrote "I'm a poet by heart," "fall (emphasis on the f) (the f is silent)," "pockets," and the next few about the same boy
King Panda Aug 2017
I place my bet
on strings pulled

by the sun.
crows in their

black plumage
are silhouettes  

suspending
mustache sunset.

my pockets are
empty—

no lint,
crime

or cash.
I am broken

but will not run
into the darkness.

no
let me maunder

with the ephemera
of passing day.

I need a friend to
talk to.
Stevie Ray May 12
little pockets of dread.
Grey and cold.

I'm a withering leaf,
in the painful process of letting go.

My skin tears.
Flakes of despair falling in winter.

My heart cracks,
bark besides the road.

Came from far turned into a long way home.

Footprints through the mud,
woven shoelaces from dried grass.

An abandoned heart.
Soul shelters in an empty chamber.

Tears in a storm.
Grief hiding amongst drops.

In the presence of lastig absence,
thoughts staring at an empty canvas.

Little pockets.
L Maughan Sep 2
Smuggled through nocturnal talks
in shredded shadows split in strips
of mother’s bits her pockets kept
the bleak concerns he always kept
his father’s feet and staggered talk
sheets playing out across the strips
of comatose in comicstrips
submerged in worlds he never kept
of garbled words and gargled talks
talk pealed in strips of what he kept.
frances Mar 2014
you didn't realise your hands were gripping
but i'm telling you, let go
let every bad decision you ever made
fall like dead flowers into flame
all is finished, the earth is still

let me lie underneath a multitude
of what should've been ours
laughing at our oblivion
to hide the catch in my throat
checking my pockets for time

and finding only ashes
the disease of despair
gambling
suicide
hate
sadism

symptoms, not causes
of the brown blood
drained from swines'
pockets

gather up your coat
and your hat
for the primetime
event
in solidarity
mariamme Aug 2018
i'm unattainable
the keys to my love
lie in your pockets,
in the pair of shorts
you threw out today.
Next page