Famished

The oven's droning loudly next to me
and on the left a freezer hums along,
I'm stewing on this thing called Destiny
but feel I’m simply one among the throng,
for nothing in my life would indicate
any hint of a noble cause or such,
it’s time I filled another empty plate
for those convinced they'll never get too much.
The barman tells me someone liked their wings
I numbly shrug and tell him, “Hey that’s great.”
it’s good to know I’m not a total waste,
and though I crave to do artistic things
I guess this is the fullness of my fate:
To hunger but to never get a taste.