Hunger

I'm not hungry to write.

There is no such thing.

I'm hungry to read, to live and to learn. 

To get full of all the information coming in to me through my senses,

And digest it into thoughts

that will crowd my mind and beg to flow out from my head to my arm to my hand to my pen to the paper.

I've had enough summers' days,

flowers and sunsets and beautiful things, 

I want to sing them out onto a dead winter's day

to color the white snow with shades of blue and purple and pink, 

colors only a painter can see,

and only if he's looking closely. 

I've had enough future tales of colorful places,

fantastical and clever and suspenseful,

I want to scream out my own stories onto my own paper

and read and re-read and re-read,

and show everyone my creations, 

taking the papers I wrote on and letting them fly out the window of a moving car

for the whole world to see.

I've had enough of news stills of people in other countries

starving and cold and angry

at people like me

And enough of people's problems that I honestly don't 'care about,

and enough of my own nauseating, racing thoughts, 

that I want to puke.

So I write.

Author's Note

This is my first free-verse poem, so I would REALLY appreciate some advice on it!!! I don't really like mellow-drama and stuff like that in my writing, so please tell me if this is over the top!

Reviews

[Morgoth Azreal]

I look forward to seeing what else you have

[T.K. Clay]

Dont worry about overdoing it here. This was perfect, I really connected with your words! Good show, chap!

[laRagazza]

Thanks so much! It's good to hear that someone else connected with it, it's hard to really know if i'm making my point if no one else but me reads it!