"unfed" poems
i can't remember when i last heard your voice
and i need you to know that i miss you.
but i don't think the words alone are enough.
i miss you.
I MISS YOU LIKE A BLIND MAN'S BULLSEYE.
I MISS YOU THE WAY A POOR MAN MISSES A ROOF OVER HIS HEAD.
I MISS YOU LIKE THE RUMBLING IN HIS UNFED STOMACH.
I MISS YOU LIKE THE COLD ACHY SPACE IN THIS HALF-EMPTY BED.
I MISS YOU LIKE EVERY POEM I ALMOST WROTE BUT FORGOT ABOUT BEFORE I FOUND A PEN TO WRITE IT DOWN.
I MISS YOU LIKE A FORGOTTEN BIRTHDAY.
I MISS YOU THE WAY JANUARY MISSES GREEN.
I MISS YOU LIKE MY FATHER'S BEDTIME STORIES.
I MISS YOU LIKE THE LAST TRAIN HOME.
MY CHEST IS CAVING. MY LUNGS ARE SHRIVELING,
AND WITH MY LAST BREATH I WILL SCREAM
THROUGH SPACE AND TIME - I MISS YOU.
IT'S TRUE, WHAT ALL THOSE POETS SAY ABOUT THE SUN & MOON - THAT THEY ARE GOING TO KEEP CHASING EACH OTHER FOR ETERNITY, THAT THEY WILL NEVER KNOW ONE ANOTHER'S TOUCH. SO I AM SENDING UP VENDING-MACHINE PRAYERS TO A MAY-OR-MAY-NOT-BE-THERE GOD, BEGGING HIM TO CLOSE THE GAP BETWEEN YOUR FINGERS AND THE SPACES BETWEEN MINE.
- m.f.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
When I was borne
my mother passed away and
one day father also
left the hut leaving me alone
and my destiny was now
homeless, helpless and orphan
vagabond I was now
roaming around the road and streets
in search of food and shelter
But I also have some dreams
I wish if I were competent enough
I could have opened
an amazing school
where free education would
be right of every poor and needy child
and now no more poor child
would be deprived of education
I wish I could have built a dream home
for every homeless and destitute child
now no more child would
spend dark nights in the open sky
I wish I could have made
a beautiful garden where
every homeless child would play
and run after colorful butterflies
and beautiful flowers of all colors
would bloom in the garden
I wish I could have opened
a big kitchen near the dream home
where every hunger child
could eat to his fill and hence
no more child would be esurient,
unfed and indigent
I wish I could have opened a factory
where clothes could be stitched
for poor and naked children
and no more child
would be devoid of clothes
I pray to God that
my dreams come true one day
(By Kishan Negi)
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 12:30 AM UTC
Do you know that girl who smiles all day?
Do you know that girl who likes to play?
Do you know that girl who's outgoing?
Everyone knows her
Cause' she's socially flowing
That girl is the same girl who...
Cries at night
Dies at night
She hears the lies with ears
And with sight
Despite
The fact she's trying to be strong
For long
But the memories are brought bck
By RnB songs
Hs a hard surface
But she's soft inside
Gave up on love
Left her heart behind
There's a whispering voice
Acting as a reminder
Never failing to remind her
Insecurities fill her head
In her mind
She has the coldest bed
Her hunger for cuddling
Remains unfed
And her wrists are covered
With red
She hides her pain
With the fake smile
Thinks love is in the form of
Doggy styles
She thinks the pain is temporary
While
It is stored
In the medula oblingata file
Well...
I told her
I see through your pain
Let go cause' there is
A lot to gain
Whether sunny or rain
Whether washable
Or long term stain
Negativity starts to grow
It physically starts to show
Emotionally she starts to blow
She covers it up
That's the reason why
Nobody knows...
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 2:33 PM UTC
In haste...
Behind
Our footprints
Were the scattered emptiness
Of the memories
Of them
On the shores
She left the three parties of us
Me, Samantha
And our traveler friend
They were play things for sunset fares,
She said.
Just yesterday
They were happy to be here
The young flowers now scattered about
This beach shore
Too young to be plucked
Happy to grow up into one party of laughter!
That's how we remember they were here
That's how to plant graveside flowers
For the dead
They were play things for sunset fares
They were not soldiers
They were unprotected, unfed, afraid children and women.
They were not warriors
That's how to plant graveside flowers
That's how we have kept them forever
In our hearts..
You are not forgotten
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 11:53 AM UTC
Hungry stones line the narrows
a jagged, muddy trail
aspen trees as pharaohs
gaunt columns of massive scale
Broken wagon pieces lie
testament to treachery
splintered axles cry
hopeless dwell in reverie
only insects fly
Lonely road disintegrate
loose shades of beige and brown
fallen roadsigns instigate
nature steal the crown
Hungry stones in narrows
still are left unfed
bodies strewn with arrows
death they do not dread.
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 3:07 PM UTC
Spellbinding sparkling queues of pearly faces
Seethe in a gemstone sea of lips and beaks.
Veiling night, my Nirvana, leads us places
Fraught with clandestine lies and feathered peaks.
The hidden eyes reflect the burning light
Rampant within the painful lifelong dance
And swivel southward, scorched with silent fright;
Parades of fiends swing by at ev'ry glance.
Burn the voiceless witches! Condemn the dead!
Slash the hopeless visages to the night!
Raccoons, exposing drooling mouths unfed--
Charming music conceals their true delight.
I, the regisseur, perform my role
Then fade behind the mask that chokes my soul.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 12:53 PM UTC
They flowed easy the tears of her
In her core was a kindness’ river
With a heart of gold a love too pure
Her bags were full with pains to endure!
Married at teen and a widow too soon
Her youth dark dimmed an eclipsed moon
Dragged to abyss and feasted upon
Bereft a blood she could call her own!
A wonder her life though ravaged much
Growing not hard she broke to the touch
Would come to grief at others’ pain
Her cheeks overflowing in sobbing rain!
As a child I felt at a time now far
On one short span spent with her
When my innocence could easily tell
Neath her frame was an earthly angel!
Wasn’t a beggar returned from door
A stray unfed to die on the road
She was there with a saving aid
Her own life though was left unpaid!
As I write this rebel locked tears
Break floodgates of long lost years
Reveals from the mist a haloed face
Of an angel of love and godly grace!
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 9:19 AM UTC
**** head
Sedilia smile
move inches
Talk for a mile
Wontcha walk for a while,
Wontcha walk for a while
I’m dead
silly I smile
bedhead
sun gimme a dial
wontcha recognize the time
I looked at you to long now I’m blind
oh but parliamentary wontcha drop a seed on me
I’m just dying to grow n you taught me to know I’m to smart to move for you
Oh and the time keeps passing me by n I slaughter seconds with questions asking why can’t I realize why this time keeps passing me by
Unfed lead
leading helmeted heads
of plague ridden pockets with their skin overfed
to the great meat grinder
will we topple the walls
or let our words get cleaned off of those bathroom stalls?
Sunset
You’re gonna go far
stars live in the dark
get stuck in the tar
I can’t see your face on a cloudy day
the clear nights tell me it’s all ok
oh but parliamentary wontcha drop a seed on me
I’m just dying to grow n you taught me to know I’m to smart to move for you
Oh and the time keeps passing me by n I slaughter seconds with questions asking why can’t I realize why this time keeps passing me by
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
Oh flightless seabird,
I think you are lovely.
Mouth unfed,
feathers untethered.
Sitting pretty on the creek,
friends and families tasting the blue.
No wind under your feet,
not yet.
They think fondly of you,
seabird.
That’s a choice they’re allowed to make.
The higher they fly, the further away you become.
The weakest love you,
pity turns to self love.
At least they can fly,
at least they’re not alone.
You know better,
my seabird.
I saw you,
and so I knew you.
Easy.
It is you and you alone who grins at lilac kisses,
melts the silver sparks.
Sour grass midnight and
rusted dawns alike agree that you see,
therefore you are.
Flightless seabird,
We’re looking back with glass eyes.
You are here,
and you are loved.
You are not alone.
Aug 3, 2020
Aug 3, 2020 at 1:39 PM UTC
When Mr. Brown forgets
leaves his puppy unfed and tied
before rushing off to work
the animal mewls confused
abandoned and lonely all day
watching Dog TV.
The parched houseplant
screams from its porcelain prison
for silent water
wishing only to be made wet
fecund on attention once again.
Everything sits silent
in the close confines
our life's domestic drama
just waiting for us to realize
we are born to notice
the cries of who lies closest.
Yet no one is to blame
for ignorance;
it is the Dog's karma to be abused,
the foliage to dry and go discarded
for no apparent fault of their own.
It is Mr. Brown's karma
for his dog to die
with a broken unfed heart
to toss his plants in the trash
to find his home unadorned and silent once again
and wonder over and over
why is life so barren?
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 7:00 AM UTC
The mighty grizzly bear
Waiting by the waterfall
Watching the crashing waves
Listening to their mystic moves
The first salmon leaps,
Just to make sure it doesn’t run into a famished bear
It’s mind panics, as it realizes what is happening
The bear’s mouth widens
And clamps down its jaws
Satisfied with his dinner, but wanting much more.
The wolf cries out from above
Depending on the moonlight to show her the path
She’s drifting away, too tired.
But remembers she needs to feed her cubs
She lurks in between black spruce trees
Her sons, closely following behind.
The creatures of the night watch where they run
Making sure they don’t catch the attention of death.
Though she doesn’t realize, the scampering rabbit
Just two feet in front of her
The rabbit is lucky enough to have a snow white coat
To blend into god’s blanket, laid across the land.
Mother wolf isn’t so blessed, for tonight is one more night
Her cubs will have to go unfed.
The eagle
Mastering the art of flying
Swimming in the skies
Looking for a tree, too perfect to live
Skimming the land
Just the perfect tree is all he needs
To sleep on tonight
For the sun is coming down
And moon is rising up
The stars become visible
The eagle is getting worried
But finally, he finds a tree
Swings down and places its claws onto a branch
So peaceful, listening to the wolf’s howl
Like the theme song to his life.
Unlike the “woof” that the same animal makes
It pierces his ears, the eagle loathes it.
Finally asleep, eyes closed.
Dreaming is his favorite thing
A television for his mind.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 5:37 PM UTC
Antara sheddad a man of letter,
Born to suffer and to write,
For worse or for better,
He thought he was doing right.
Antara found himself in a pickle
Over a mighty promise,
His love went, although fickle,
From a melody, to a hiss.
Antara voiced his mind,
A lustful mouthy dirt,
Mindful he might find
Joy in agony and hurt.
Antara wrote for a nickel,
Not to expect a dime,
Clever and whimsical
With a rhythm and a rhyme.
Antara wrote a little and knew
His audience expected a lot,
He went cold on the few
And on the rest went hot.
Antara wept and laid down tall,
Now out of breath
His dying words call
For life and for death.
Antara lived in rumpus
No home, no rest, no treat
They named after him a campus
A library and a street.
Antara Sheddad lived a helot,
Unfed on Obedience,
A heart of a zealot,
And an ill-fortune expedience.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 1:10 PM UTC
Look through the fence, you see that beast there?
That tense lump of muscle and mange-ridden hair?
That's old Scrapyard Spike, and this is his lair;
Don't tread in his yard on adventure nor dare.
Old Scrapyard Spike, he's been a-weathered for years;
In his chain-link domain, rain-soaked despair.
Unfed in the morning, watered only with tears;
Unsheltered from squalls, corroded by glare.
Now poor Scrapyard Spike wasn't always so old,
When he was a puppy, they told him they loved him;
But when he grew up, he had to make friends with the cold,
For with the clink of a fence, he was thrown out on a whim
So Spike spent his days alone with his chain;
He sweltered at noon and slept wet with the rain;
And all those who passed him discounted his pain:
"He's just an old cur" was the daily refrain
And then one cold day, a girl found her way in;
Her flesh on her bones, blood coursing unspilled.
Old Spike smelled her first, his chain went a-slitherin'
And the lost child stood rooted, her every nerve chilled.
The silence of metal, broken plastic and glass,
The beast came a-running, his chain length a ploy;
And jaws opened wide as he lunged for the lass;
But when his head pressed her thigh, he whimpered with joy.
Old Spike raised the call with a manticore's thunder;
A summoning cast with his lungs' every strain.
She petted him gently, whose care she was under,
Though his poor heart convulsed as he looked back at his chain.
The clangor succeeded, a blue-clad protector
Saw the beast at her heel, and he drew as he lept;
An ounce of hot metal found Scrapyard Spike's skull,
And the last thing he heard was his friend as she wept.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
MY CHILDHOOD ROOM
FEELS LIKE A MUSEUM
no matter how many times
I dust the shelves.
The trophies look more plastic than ever
and the cat collection is a little out of hand.
The books are still my pride and joy
but their covers haven’t been caressed in
years?
Has it really been
years?
I light a candle and cradle my thoughts in my cranium
tapping my toes in tandem with
THE TERRIBLE SQUEAK in my ceiling fan
I asked my mom to get that fixed
does she forget everything when I’m not home
do the doors go unlocked when I’m not home
do the cats go unfed
does the truth go unsaid
WHY DO I NO LONGER FIT MY CHILDHOOD BED.
In the silence I can hear her.
I hear the little girl with the long braided hair
ask her mom for a book
For Christmas.
I envy her.
This Christmas my list consisted of things
I know my mom can’t buy.
This year I asked for peace, for a stable career after college,
for a meaningful relationship that doesn’t
breed in the dark cracks of insecurity and small talk.
I asked for love, I asked for bathroom mirrors to stop insulting me,
and for people at grocery stores to smile more.
I asked for patience, I asked for the sun to show her face a little longer
so I could finish everything I promised I would do.
I asked for joy, I asked for rainfall I could dance in, for a snowstorm where I can make snow angels and not care about the ice
that slides down my sleeve
I asked for knowledge, I asked for the stories of the unheard to be shouted from the skyscrapers
and for politicians TO STOP SCREAMING.
I asked for trust, I asked for lying to be illegal
and for people to feel safe when they hold out their hearts
in front of them.
I asked for someone to listen.
Because I know I can’t do this by myself.
It’s okay that we don’t fit out childhood beds
and growing up means growing out
of our once-favorite things.
We can stop asking
for books for Christmas–
as long as we write a new one
together.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 3:00 AM UTC
I sit here on my bed,
My mind bored and my libido unfed.
I'm staring at the wall,
Its the weekend and I've done nothing at all.
They're all wanting me,
But can't come here by three.
Now I sit here all on my own,
Spending this weekend alone.
I remember when you were around,
Those weekends I never frowned.
You were there all the time,
Those nights were sublime.
I had given everything I had to you,
And our closeness grew.
I just miss you so **** much,
I miss your voice, your face, your touch.
Now I have others who try to help me forget,
But my mind is simply dead set.
You were my love and my first,
And its for you that I thirst.
So I sit here on my bed,
My mind bored and my libido unfed.
I'm staring at the wall,
Its the weekend and I'm done with everything, that's all.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC
The drive home begins with the Smiths
And ends with the Pixies.
I merge onto punitive pessimism
Heading north
Of an unfed need
Starvation, climbing with mileage
I switch lanes
Into loneliness
And putter up through
The Snoqualmie pass
The ceremonial point
Where I disown one contempt
To adopt another
From west to east
From mountainous mercy
To a pathetic plateau
This highway carries yellow lined cynicism
And white striped weariness
These pines hold my pining
For a life I long to know
Fully
These fours hours are my grace period
Of the transformation process
From untamed flight to civilized standstill
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC
Scrapping by without a lending hand
The rent raised, they’d never understand
Streets to wander with hearts heavy laden
A carefree spirit, hopes to have made it
While piles stack up with unpaid bills
They wish for freedom, to run to a hill
Without the trivialities and endless payments
To be well-off enough, not even famous
Toiling work and nights unslept
A bucket of savings slowly kept
And the climb and perseverance away from being poor
Gained them the freedom out of the door
Of sleepless nights and unfed stomachs
Their pitiful despair gave way to a plummet
Mar 9, 2021
Mar 9, 2021 at 5:05 PM UTC
Soft Voice, Loud Thoughts
Like the drip, drip, drip
Of a tap that won't,
No, can't get fixed.
And those words otherwise
Left unheard drip, drip, drip
With the broken tap
Allowong those Loud Thoughts,
With those Soft Voices
Their means to their end;
To shout...
Drip, drip, drip
And the shouting is not that
Shrieking, screaming
Of a child left unfed
Or a mother left mourning
But rather of those few words
Drip, drip, drip
That make their way past
A vocal cord which feels as though
It has already been ripped out
A vocal cord ripped out by those
Loud Voices with Soft Thoughts,
With rough hands and rougher tongue
Who use and abuse their words
Like everything else they've thrown away.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
And so Loud Thoughts with Soft Voices
Are made to feel obsolete
In a world of shrieking, screaming, shouting!
Drip! Drip! Drip!
But Loud Voices with Soft Thoughts
Would rather shout at brick walls
Than... Breathe...
And then so ... what's the point?
Those Loud Thoughts with Soft Voices
Sooner or later begin to deafen themselves
With the Soft Thoughts of Loud Voices
And that drip, drip, drip
Of Soft Voices with Loud Thoughts
Rushes and Gushes with the shrieking,
Screaming and shouting
At brick walls.
Can you still feel your vocal cords?
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 6:11 PM UTC
Demons in your head,
monsters under your bed
Hiding in the shadows, a web of awe and wonder
Fixating to descend into that abyss,
yet so terrible to fall in bliss
The calls of sirens draw you near
The wicked will laugh in dark ecstasy, ah blight--
try if you may, take flight
For in sorrow you hang your head, by your neck
Beckoned by the gallows
the realm of your heart gone fallow
Freedom is just beyond you finger tips
The choice of life is yours to steal
escape this ordeal
Let the darkness perish for your victory
And as the siren songs drown you in a blanket of pain
resurface with strength and rise again
Call your voice to smite the lies of the deceptive
Rise swift to the thunder of a living heart
courage and victory are never far apart
Hold breath fast in your chest never to be freed
Until your last day, to offer the world a parting grace
with last of life's embrace.
The succubus withers with none on whom to feast
And the dogs howl unfed by the spoils of war
the battle done and no more
Flee now to fleeting peace as you may, just remember:
How the wicked fought before evil crumbled away
and the good suffered in dismay.
But sorrow prevailed, yet after such dark toil
All was not so fair in war and in love
but reprise, there was not total void of
And all that seemed left,
perhaps bereft,
were shadows of the lost and survivors most deft--
Though victory it was
no matter the cause
And light shall reign again, Forevermore.
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 6:41 PM UTC
*I am more lost than sunshine in a cemetery,
more emotionless than the gravestones.
a few days seem like forever.
soon you look back
and you can’t remember how long ago it was
when you last saw your reflection
make eye contact.
I am trapped in limbo, a paradise
for unknown to live unfettered,
and unfed.
the idea of judgment day is as easy to collect
as a scream in a glass jar.
heaven or hell
light or dark
lost or time
blank or known
loved or invisible
alive or barely living
or just black dead*
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 5:42 AM UTC
I have left my soul unfed
I stare at 1's and 0's all alone
I live within my phone.
I have no words but empty ones.
I speak the same script as everyone.
Who sees me?
If I don't speak.
Who loves me?
If I am not here.
Everything is fine.
Is what I say all the time.
When cliff sides erode
it is nature changing, becoming new.
What will happen as I lose myself, bit by bit.
What is hiding behind my soul?
Jan 21, 2022
Jan 21, 2022 at 1:00 AM UTC
#As she serves the food
the smell permeates the air
ah, food's aroma is so good
and I've of it a fair share.
I don't know what hunger is
how many on earth go unfed
I get whenever I please
I bother about the quality instead.
I talk of freedom and free will
care about health and hygiene
I have my assured meal
hunger's face I haven't seen.
I'm a man well fed
live in the fullness of good meals
I don't have to take it in my head
in this world hunger still kills.#
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 4:34 AM UTC
Sometimes I forget and the bells are unrung
Prayers unsaid
Hymns unsung
Sometimes I forget and the dirt is unstirred
Sky unrained
Birds unheard
Sometimes I forget and the worms are unfed
Bough unblown
Leaves unshed
Sometimes I forget and your face is unframed
Bed unseen
Stone unnamed
Sometimes I forget and your voice is unstopped
Flowers uncut
Life uncropped
Sometimes I forget and my smile is unfeigned
Nights undark
Days unpained
May 15, 2019
May 15, 2019 at 9:38 AM UTC
Oh, happiness, you know, is such a mystery to me
For my sweet mind, so nubile, now tempted and teased
In daisy chains constrained, becomes unflaggingly naïve
Amidst hopeless, hungry caricatures of a fresh, degenerate breed---
It is these sad amalgamations of cynicism and greed
That beg so caustically for my poor pauper’s decree
Wholly, humbly, in morally hazardous beseech
Reminding me that I will never be exempt from this disease
Because a bird that has for all its life been caged
Would know not, in freedom’s grasp, just how it should behave
And I imagine, most ignorantly, would haplessly spend its days
Flying in circles above the cold cell in which it was once contained
For it is the fear within that forbids us from ever wandering astray
Not, as we convince ourselves, those despicably tangible restraints
But the prejudices and prospects upon which we were raised
The unforgiving pathways of a pre-determined fate
Well, I’d rather die simply, dreaming wistfully instead
Because even the corporeal hand of freedom is ghostly akin to lead
The poison in my veins that leaves me ****** and unfed
It can scarcely compare to the beauty I’ve concocted in my head
And ‘fate,’ I admit, is something that I’ve come to quite dread
To think my end is not my own makes me wish that I was dead
To be voiceless and choiceless and paralyzed in my bed
A story that was written and never to be read
My existence will never course on a single, narrow line
And there will be many, many beds in which my loyalties lie
The destination may well be as crooked as the path the arrow flies
And for all of this uncertainty, I most assuredly will be fine
Because mark my words; let doubt not linger in mind
These cages and these pages will be now and forever mine
Just an arbitrary reaction to the hand-me-down destiny I’ve defied
The parameters I have made to covet all the corners of my life
Oct 28, 2011
Oct 28, 2011 at 7:46 PM UTC