Some kind of confessional bullshit

I've found I prefer to be hungry.
How odd to rather be empty.
How foolish to hoard the insight.

Like two windows facing one another
reflection and reality folded together
clean as the branch late December
tapping on one, showing the other,
sharing neither.

I've found it becomes agreeable
to only survive; though it makes
for an odd life to examine,
pick apart, staple together
like some fifth year med. student
might slide that weeks course onto the table,
some hope that adaptability won't prove this life's
most striking feature.

I find it most difficult to be both
masochistic and insightful,
though what better evidence of survival?

Perhaps that of children born out of wedlock,
out of doors, out of a drunk night, out of a chance
for anything but, and nothing short of,
survival with an intensity only the truly hungry
can appreciate.