Where Silver Tears Do Rust
43,993 poems read
Hungry Hearts...2003
Hungry hearts.
Desperate minds.
Telephone calls dialed mid-morning and mid-night.
Hushed voices speak of passion, need, lust and longing.
Hungry hearts beat hard and bodies quiver.
Nothing shall come of this conversation.
Fantasy reigns during these secret, private interludes.
They who bare the weight of hungry hearts burn with a desire to satisfy, if only for a moment, the desires of their flesh.
No satisfaction is found during the gratification of ones physical need.
Hearts remain hungry.
Eyes meet on darkened street corners.
Shadows and silhouettes are vaguely observed by curious on-lookers.
They who seek the darkness and try in vain to feed their longing, turn away from one another and walk in opposite directions, now facing the realization that sex is not love.
They realize that physical gratification sought after in the shadows merely darkens their spirits.
The hunger in their hearts grows.
They continue to seek out still more hearts that harbor the hunger that is equal unto their own hunger.
Hence, the cycle continues.
Hungry heart are void of promises; are fearful of whispers uttered in moments of passion.
Skeptical of the many, they seek out the few.
The few hungry hearts who realize that the emptiness that follows the anti-climatic, spontaneous, instant gratification that is so sweet, is but for a mere moment in time.
The telephone calls continue.
Words that taunt and tease the human need to be held, caressed and made love to.
Then comes sleep.
Dreams transcend into fantasy.
Fantasies that awaken hungry hearts.
The longing for warm breath upon ones skin causes the void to grow.
Now, nearly starved to death, hungry hearts give in to the many that they were at one time so skeptical of.
The few that were once sought after are now overlooked by desperate minds.
Hungry hearts cannot be fed to the point of satisfaction.
The variety, the newness, the excitement of a first kiss or caress makes them vulnerable to the many selfish, pretentious hearts that they encounter.
I am hungry of heart.
I do seek out the many.
I do overlook the few.
Always, I turn and walk away aware of the fact that I have caused the void in my heart to grow to such vast proportions that I willingly accept the requests of the many.
I do indulge myself in meaningless, spontaneous moments of anti-climatic whispers uttered in a moment of passion.
I do indulge myself in instant physical gratification that is so sweet, if but only for a moment or two.
The telephone rings.
Another hungry heart.
Not unlike myself, that heart has surrendered and succumbed to the many.
How tragic.
How completely tragic.
So many hungry hearts.
So many desperate minds.
So many fearful spirits.
I speak only of that which I am familiar with.
Of the hungry of heart, I can speak.
For alas, I walk among them.
I am of the multitude that bare the weight of hungry hearts...
L.A.Mc Nabb
Thursday, 06 March,2003
Copyright © 2004 Lori Ann McNabb, All Rights Reserved
Desperate minds.
Telephone calls dialed mid-morning and mid-night.
Hushed voices speak of passion, need, lust and longing.
Hungry hearts beat hard and bodies quiver.
Nothing shall come of this conversation.
Fantasy reigns during these secret, private interludes.
They who bare the weight of hungry hearts burn with a desire to satisfy, if only for a moment, the desires of their flesh.
No satisfaction is found during the gratification of ones physical need.
Hearts remain hungry.
Eyes meet on darkened street corners.
Shadows and silhouettes are vaguely observed by curious on-lookers.
They who seek the darkness and try in vain to feed their longing, turn away from one another and walk in opposite directions, now facing the realization that sex is not love.
They realize that physical gratification sought after in the shadows merely darkens their spirits.
The hunger in their hearts grows.
They continue to seek out still more hearts that harbor the hunger that is equal unto their own hunger.
Hence, the cycle continues.
Hungry heart are void of promises; are fearful of whispers uttered in moments of passion.
Skeptical of the many, they seek out the few.
The few hungry hearts who realize that the emptiness that follows the anti-climatic, spontaneous, instant gratification that is so sweet, is but for a mere moment in time.
The telephone calls continue.
Words that taunt and tease the human need to be held, caressed and made love to.
Then comes sleep.
Dreams transcend into fantasy.
Fantasies that awaken hungry hearts.
The longing for warm breath upon ones skin causes the void to grow.
Now, nearly starved to death, hungry hearts give in to the many that they were at one time so skeptical of.
The few that were once sought after are now overlooked by desperate minds.
Hungry hearts cannot be fed to the point of satisfaction.
The variety, the newness, the excitement of a first kiss or caress makes them vulnerable to the many selfish, pretentious hearts that they encounter.
I am hungry of heart.
I do seek out the many.
I do overlook the few.
Always, I turn and walk away aware of the fact that I have caused the void in my heart to grow to such vast proportions that I willingly accept the requests of the many.
I do indulge myself in meaningless, spontaneous moments of anti-climatic whispers uttered in a moment of passion.
I do indulge myself in instant physical gratification that is so sweet, if but only for a moment or two.
The telephone rings.
Another hungry heart.
Not unlike myself, that heart has surrendered and succumbed to the many.
How tragic.
How completely tragic.
So many hungry hearts.
So many desperate minds.
So many fearful spirits.
I speak only of that which I am familiar with.
Of the hungry of heart, I can speak.
For alas, I walk among them.
I am of the multitude that bare the weight of hungry hearts...
L.A.Mc Nabb
Thursday, 06 March,2003
Copyright © 2004 Lori Ann McNabb, All Rights Reserved
Comment On This Poem --- Vote for this poem
Hungry Hearts...2003
Hungry Hearts...2003