Theres a hunger for passion in this world
so devastatingly delirious
and paradoxically toxic,
that it can bring a starving, grown man to his knees to beg for more of his own hunger.

I’ve seen it in the eyes of those that never tried.
Those that could have held the world
in the palm of their hand,
had they only decided to do so.

Now their eyes shine a different way
to those of their golden days,
the way of hate,
the way of submerged fury,
haunting reasons to erupt at the world they could have held,
now their muse of beatings.

Never present and always hunting,
always festering at boiling point
from the moment they arise
to the moment they dream those dreams
of all that could have been