My pocket hangs with open air,
No weight of coins, no riches there.
It knows the shape of want and need,
A quiet place where thoughts take seed.
Each step I take, it softly sighs,
Hearing hunger, hiding pride.
It holds my hand, it knows my name,
A silent witness to the pain.
Yet in that space where nothing stays,
I hide my plans for better days.
No gold inside, but faith remains,
Strong enough to break the chains.
The world may judge the cloth I wear,
Or count the loss I daily bear.
They miss the fire I keep within,
A wealth unseen beneath my skin.
One day this pocket, worn and torn,
Will feel the weight of dreams reborn.
Till then I walk, both poor and free,
With hope as my true currency.
About the Creator
shaoor afridi
“I am a passionate writer dedicated to sharing informative, engaging, and well-researched articles. My goal is to provide valuable content that educates, inspires, and adds real value to readers.”
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