Poem By Dan Lukman
He sits alone at the table, hungry.
But he already ate the salad, the potatos, the burned chicken.
He looks at his plate, playing with the green part of the tomato, still hungy inside.
His brother asks him how his day's been, and he can only say 'okay'.
The big brother won't ask him what's wrong, he never will, because he can only see how wrong it is to be silent and sad during the family dinner.
The rest of the family members eat and puke, again and again, the same food they love- sarcasm, while he can't even touch that dish.
He gets up and goes upstairs, to his room, where he hears music, hoping to be finaly full.
But no song can feed him, they can only give him a feeling that he's not hungry, but this feeling will fade after his ears leave his headpones.
His father comes up to his room, and enters without knocking.
He asks him why he isn't at the table, and he can only say that he isn't hungry.
His dad throws up his anger on him, telling him that he must be at the dinner table, not asking if maybe he doesn't like one of the dishes on the table.
All he can do is lock himself in his room, while the hunger from inside makes him throw up all the tears he ate his whole life.
They don't understand that a different organ is hungry inside him, hungry for the love and respect he always wanted to eat.
His heart growls and growls, but he can't feed it, because the only dish it loves isn't on the table.