Pockets: a poem

Staff Writer

I’ve got pockets with pennies, nickels, quarters, and dimes

A million different coins in my pocket, And I still can’t seem to buy,

Something that everybody wants, and scraps for at the end of the day,

And we ask if we have it, When we’re all alone and it’s late,

That fairy that flies in our most sincere dreams, And taunts us with relief,

That we’ve spent our time well, And done everything we need,

Because Grim comes soon, And he asks us for our light,

And we jerk and yank with him, Leaving with a rage against the night,

But never does youth stay young, And never will we buy off Grim,

And so we empty our pockets every day, To find that what we want costs limbs

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