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nom de plume Oct 7
i ate a four-leaf clover and
consumed its luck, which died in me.
i lied in the quick, quiet field,
killing the grass,
looking to set myself free.
i drank and i drank
from every river, every creek,
my thirst unsatisfied until it had every sea.
my touch burned down forests,
my glance slaughtered meadows,
when climbing and looking for everything, anything,
i killed every tree.

in my quest for satisfaction,
i murdered the sky,
and yet nowhere have i found the fulfillment
i believe key.
thus, starved for complacency,
i continue my fruitless killing spree.
Stomach is empty
Weight falling like fat raindrops.
Still is not enough.
(c) Allison Wonder
good old television
or televisions plural because
this shop window has
twenty-two of them
all showing a celebrity
cooking show twenty-two

identical pans containing
the same cuts of chicken
or maybe pork or whitefish
being lightly browned while
no voice can be heard from
the twenty-two tanned faces

smiling out at us and
here the homeless man
watches them all from the
pavement and the rain
good old television
something for everyone
Maaz Jun 12
The pain one man feels can be felt by another.
When one man suffers, we all suffer.
But the suffering of one does not equate to that of another,
What we go through is nothing compared to our sisters & brothers.

One man may starve & no hands will reach out to feed him,
when You and I scroll through our feed, do we care for him?
In that moment, our hearts may bleed for him, but does that really matter? When a living, breathing man looks more like a cadaver.

We pile the blame on those in power
to allow our conscience to breathe,
And yet, in reality we, the people, are to blame.
For we can move mountains with our actions to help the powerless but instead we choose to lie and deny our own cowardice.
A crime we're all guilty of
two poets, laureates both,
on the nature of hunger, discourse.

I was there, hungry in every aspect,
seeking wisdom of the hungering nature of human.

examine the word, hunger,
hardly a rolling off the tongue mellifluous.
you exhale it from the gut, in gowned resplendent ugliness,
go ahead, try it, it’s coarse and powerful insistent.

awoken empty but for the hunger, hungover from
dancing words and imagery not mine, now mine,
maddeningly demanding my dutiful attentions,
as if hunger was the master, me, obedient pupil.

the clean white slate the IPad re-presents repeatedly,
insulted that I have yet to crayon color it with the coherence
of hunger-exhaled words, dismissive that I am but an also-ran,
my village of lexical too unsophisticated,
the page addressed yet unplanned,
Apple white is the color of the
starving artist.
Breanna W May 13
We are not afraid of the mirror,
We are afraid of the monster it shows.
We are afraid of porcelain skin
stained red,
afraid of never finding the bone,
afraid of never finding the very
core essence of our control.
I am afraid of being too much,
of not being enough,
of this skinny love
for a non-skinny reflection,
afraid of failing
if I am never able to see
my porcelain bones
imprinted on porcelain skin,
my very core
protruding from within.

I am my own control.
and one day,
I shall see it in the mirror,
even if I have to fall into it
and become the monster within.
This is super negative, but it's what I'm feeling right now so I put it up anyways.
Eleanor Feb 6
Mum, there's one thing i don't want you to hear,
it's that food doesn't make me grin from ear to ear,
it makes me terrified of the voice inside,
wanna crawl into my bed and hide,
and cry and cry about my outside,
until there's silence from the voice inside.

But it's never silence,
just a pause,
'til it grabs me again with it's awful claws,
scratches me and makes me bleed,
bruises me until i plead,
and remind myself that i agreed,
pain until I'm skinny, please.

I'm fat i know, i don't need to be told,
I'm tall and only 16 years old,
I'm a child yes, but you never scold,
because a good girl you did mold,
i used to get good grades and study hard,
now all i am is a bunch of lard,
i still study hard but i am scarred,
by the voice that tells me,
i'll never reach that bar.

I try and try but don't succeed,
i wish i could follow my brother's lead,
all the way to university,
getting himself a good degree,
a 50,000+ salary,
but the closest i'll get to that salary,
is a salad.
so i'll sit here munching rabbit food,
while you're thinking that i'm being rude,
for not sitting at the table with you,
while you EAT you're normal human food.

Why is EAT such a hard word to say?
it's three simple letters, just E, T and A,
combined and jumbled in three different ways,
EAT, tea and ATE are the things you can say,
but the latter word causes dismay,
sending my mind into disarray,
ana is here, she's here to stay,
reminding me there's no other way,
i must put down the food,
say i'm not hungry today,
go a little longer,
fast just one more day.
I feed my habits
And ignore my needs
As distasteful as it seems
My plan succeeds
I plant the seeds
That grow the weeds
Won't feed myself
I starve, deceased.
Angela Dec 2018
Dating as a single parent is a strange thing.
You have to open yourself
And learn to trust someone new
And new is petrifying
But when you do
It feels like you're suspended in air.
Your heart is again warm, your belly full of butterflies.
A kind of feeling your children cannot give you.
Something different.
Everything is perfect
And then something changes.
Suddenly theyre not there
A void is once again opening
Your presence is no longer welcomed
And you cant explain it because they wont.
Sleep eludes you like a promised meteor shower on a cloudy night.
Food now feels like poison on its journey to your starving stomach.
Your body is weak from the malnutrition that this love was feeding your soul.
The trust you gave them is now shattered
And all of the words you heard from your past comes alive and deafens you once again
"Youre nothing without me"
"No one will ever love you"
"You'll be a young single parent and no one wants that"
Doubt will crush your soul
And again
And again.
But you remember.
Youre a mother.
The bringer of life
And snacks.
You have dried tears and kissed ouchies
You have been the protector of your children
And now, you have to be the protector of yourself.
One day you'll wake up,
A little lighter
A little hungier
A little happier
Pyrrha Dec 2018
You saw them suffering everyday as you passed by
So somedays you threw money in their little tin can
But their pain lies far beneath the surface
Homelessness is an illness that costs more than pocket change to cure
Starvation and injustice can't be paid with a full tin can
Their lifestyles cant be changed with ten thousand cans of change
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