the truth comes easy when you're starving,
no spoon to slurp embellishments
puddled in your bowl.
draining--
they say to art
enrichens the soul,
the monochromatic day in/
money out.
lucky, to scrawl
there's blood and
the walls when the last
of your pages deplete.

but when there's bread,
you're sick,
belly bloated,
cocky and sated,
and there's a pen
gone unreached for,
a loveless pang.
how long 'til your hands
start their shake?
two days 'til
you're brothless again.