Pockets, pockets, pockets

I am suffering with the ailment of time
crawling by on buckled knees
Hands in pockets
He would be laughing at me
the small girl stuck in the suit shop
eyes down on paper
as blazers hug one another on the rails
surrounding me
Hands in pockets
My wrists are clean
but I’ve mentally toyed with the elusive end
more times than I can count
Hands in pockets
I have spent too long waiting
at the bus stop, 
train stations,
for my mother to arrive on time,
the day to end,
to get older, 
find my great love
Hands in pockets
I wear three rings, all silver
I wear this heart of mine
through my throat
I don’t bleed to die
I bleed to release; paper and ink

2 thoughts on “Pockets, pockets, pockets

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