Nothing In My Pocket

I make the country roads possible for my entry
with my worn-out sneakers
and my scant spending impossible for one of those warm sweaters, behind those windows;
I will rather exchange my timeless coldness for them..
And all the time my hand will search to the very beginning of the unfortunately unused Denim,
I yearn for the fullness and completeness, instead of this horrible missing of necessaries I’m in..

There’s nothing in my pocket, except for some old fountain pen and dried ink that got splattered into the old yellowed paper skin..
Bringing me back to the time when I wrote about my lovely feelings and experiences,
currently shattering those beautiful memories and keeping them faraway with an unbreakable lock..
And all I seem to have is a horrible writer’s block..


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