Hungry Writers

Hungry Writers

Hunger, claws as deep as the seventh earth, plunge into the weary bodies of these writers 

The poets themselves do not boast of chips dripping from dining tables
Conjurers of images they are, creating existences with the hollows of words chanted
Images are not fitting keys for the keyholes to realised dreams
Mostly so if dream-buyers have sealed these holes with flesh and blood your words are groomed into.

These writers are hungry
Some are story tellers
Every evening at dinner
They eat their stories and
And belch out their lines to
The deaf ears of the wall

Our writers are hungry
The judges say their poems are vague
Their stories are pointless
So, their pockets will remain light
Light pockets produce heavy hearts.

These writers are hungry
Many of them are stars
Stars, rejected by the universe
They are earth bound
Earth is soil.
Soil is sometimes referred as dirt.
These writers are dirty.

These writers are hungry
Hunger is the henchman of death
They are dying of being misunderstood
Understand, these writers will write anything for money.

These writers are planters of fertile words
But famishment crawls through the hollow on the threshold into their huts
And like a cankerworm, renders harvest the structure of a scarecrow, gaunt and hungry, yet towering over a stretch of ripening pods
Facebook likes gather in a kaleidoscope, a bound of interconnected lines: a trillion
Are their reward for candles burnt and foreheads furrowed

These writers are flung emaciated at hollows
Weary from a millienia of toils, barefooted
Through hearts snapping in cyclones
Through sores borne from battles with faceless silhouettes.
Through wagging tongues, licking them off every thread of clothing.
Through days spent wandering in caves, hunting shadows of selves.

They die from the unfulfilled vows of the heads, lying still in the catacombs of their glories and gories
And the harvests are words which reverberate across the fence, empty as they had come

I and these writers are famished.


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