Pocket Pain

We are cowards, we who cannot mourn

but from the beginning we were sworn

into this, and threads that weren’t our own

into suits of happiness, our bodies have sewn

and the secret then is this,

that in our smiles we taste no bliss

yet force them for all to see

and this is the greatest blasphemy

For the fear and pain we must keep in our pockets

and close up our longing inside silver lockets

the coat they’ve made fits like a gown

roomy, with enough pockets to weigh one down

I’ve one for a sister, I miss with all my might

and room for the conscience, that keeps me up at night

sewn into the lining, always ripping at the seams

is place for hopes, failures and dreams

But in most of the pockets, deep, deep, deep

fear and pain is damned ever to creep

the question is this: how much will we spend

per suit of happiness, in the end?

and I see secrets stitched into her lips

patchwork truths, as she sips

from her own smile — the world tips

from the heavy burdened smiles on our lips

And my secret now is this

since I have had you to miss

I’ve donned supposed happiness

and put on the face of bliss

We are cowards, we who keep

pain in our pockets, deep, deep, deep

and, oh, the irony then is this

we still smile, though we taste no bliss

we smile as we mourn for happiness

do not tell — our secret is this.

– Padfoot

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