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Hunger strike
by Laura DoomThis morning, I did not wake
to a flame-thown sunrise
or the gurgles of starlings.
My bed, though manifestly lived
in, is lovingly undisturbed.
I am late, though I will not miss
breakfast. Scrambled eggs or toast?
I chose not to be struck by hunger,
to be tortured by the taste
of newly-hatched memories.
Nothing of value goes to waste;
I will feed the choral dawn
with unsung dusk, and starve
myself of hearts and minds that beat
their heads against my bedside wall. 04/08/2014 Posted on 04/08/2014
Copyright © 2024 Laura Doom
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 04/08/14 at 06:48 PM As a fellow wordsmith, I can relate strongly to all of this in my own way. Especially when my muse is dictating a new poem to me...and into my computer or paper workbook...nothing else, including hunger for food matters until the job is done, and I have that all important first draft. Thanks for the evocative reminder, Laura. |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 04/09/14 at 07:51 PM It is usually my keyboard that I beat my head against. I plead for the words to make sense and when they do I know I've just written another meaningless poem. Really good! |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 04/10/14 at 02:53 PM "and starve
myself of hearts and minds that beat
their heads against my bedside wall." Great lines. |
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