The Hunger

It isnt just peace of

mind lost.

No.

When the words elude,

the poet starves.

Sometimes the words come like

water from a fountain.

Other times not a

drop

can be drawn,

the soul is a drought.

This is when

the poet slowly dies.

Yet this death is necessary

for rebirth within.

For the water of the

word

replenishes in

tragedy

or sorrow.

And again the fountain shows

its bounty.

But nothing lasts forever.

And for us,

hunger comes after feast.