My Pockets Are Full

I carry many things,
My phone,
My chapstick,
My bag,
My iPod,
It doesn’t seem like much

Does it?

But yet my load is rather heavy,
Because I still carry all my regrets,
My feelings,
My hate, My love
And all my mistakes.

My scale at home may say
98 pounds of Me,
But the scale of life will read,
Too much weight to carry.

People can see my belongings,
Of which are in my pockets,
But there is more that I carry,
Many don’t see past the folds of my jeans.

It’s simply invisible to them,
Many will attempt to see,
But most will fail.
Many will pretend that they understand,
that they will help,
But they just make it harder,
When they leave,
Making the burden I carry heavier,
Making it harder to haul it along with me.
They will let me know they are still out there living their life,
By passing on to me their
rumors,
guesses,
lies,
negativity,
And, those come in rather big packages
and it just keeps adding on to my load,
Making my backpack larger and heavier,
Yet I’ll take it on,


Until I trip,










fall,
And it all ends in a session of cold tears,
racing down my warm cheek.
And I’ll sit and wait,
For you,
To come and pick me up,
Dust me off,
To remove parts of my baggage,
Taking the big packages
And making them more compact,

Easier to carry,
Removing the shackles
Of which my baggage had formed
Freeing my hands and feet,
So I can continue on my walk,
Just to get tripped up yet again.





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brittani said...
Jan. 30, 2011 at 3:19 pm
omg i love this poem:)
 
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