They are not starved
who holds a small bowl-
only the one who keeps
scraping its bottom
for a feast that was never there.
Hunger is a quiet thing
until you feed it.
Then it grows teeth.
Then it learns your name.
Then it drags you by the throat
toward the next glittering promise.
The one who craves more
walks with pockets full of holes,
pouring out their peace
grain by grain,
never noticing the trail
of everything they once loved
spilled behind them.
They mistake the ache for ambition,
the emptiness for destiny,
the wanting for worth.
But craving is a furnace
that burns the hand
that keeps it stoked.
And so they become poor-
not in coin,
but in calm.
Not in wealth,
but in wonder.
Not in possessions,
but in the ability
to feel full.
For nothing ruins one faster
than the belief
that the next thing
will finally be enough.