Piggy Bank

I feel like the piggy bank today.

The one which only has a tiny rectangular slot to put in coins and notes made of clay and colored a deep shade of blue or orange.

The one made by some old artisan sitting outside his mud and hay house with his spinning wheel and a pile of clay to be turned into either piggy banks, small animals for kids to play or vases which no one will be interested to purchase.

I feel that everyone is just banking on things in me, cluttering me with all the thoughts they want to dispose off or advises which they have freely for everyone.

So, everything has a way to go in, but nothing has a way out until the piggy bank is smashed hard and is broken in tiny pieces unfixable.