Our stomachs wretch for a chance at success,
To be recognized and acknowledged.
Perfectly polished and shaped by imagination
Living in a world that nobody else has seen. Sort of a dream.
Starving. Not for food but for a chance to live outside the confines
These restraints in life pinning us down like railroad ties with thick screws
No way to drive them out..
We writhe and wretch from the stomach and chest
To be different than the rest and object to the normal subjects.
Marriage. A contract
Children. An asset
I don’t understand myself, How can I understand that yet? ?
We are like pawns in a game as we throwback
We go back to our roots to figure out how we grew up.
I’d give myself a lobotomy before I gave into their thought process
Not because I’m cocky I’m just genuinely OK with not being like them.
But for some strange reason they aren't OK with me. Not even being like me, just me.
If we are different why does that drive you away? ? Aren’t you interested in anything other than..
That is exactly what you are you're all the same. To feel accepted.
Well I’ve seen “accepted” It’s very rare in humans.
So I stay confined in my own space. It’s endless.
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Comments about this poem (Starving by Robert Burgan )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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