I don't like the fact that you walk around,
With a piece of me in your pocket.
My secrets are not safe and sound;
My body is in your brain's locket.
If I could whisk the leaves up from the ground,
In a swirling red and orange rocket,
I'd direct them like a hunting hound,
To your memory of me and sock it.
Regret fills me like a piggy bank;
My coins are bursting at my seams.
To my integrity I give my thanks,
Though its arrival late to the scene.
If I had the strength I'd build a tank,
And demolish your stains once esteemed.
But sleep calls my name and to be frank,
Your prank I drank therefore I yank my ego bank from your hands so unclean.
YOU ARE READING
splendor 》poetry
Poetry𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕡𝕠𝕖𝕥 𝕚𝕤 𝕓𝕠𝕣𝕟 𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕧𝕪 𝕥𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕖𝕪𝕖𝕤 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕤𝕠𝕦𝕝 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕦𝕟𝕚𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕖.
