Have you ever wondered if a writer or poet ever feels hungry? Not the kind of hunger that takes you to the kitchen, but the hunger that pulls you into a corner with a crumpled piece of paper, eyes devouring every scribbled line you once called your own.

I was recently reminded of this curious idea while reading a humorous yet oddly profound poem titled “I Wrote This Little Poem” by Kenn Nesbitt. In it, the poet amusingly writes, “She picked up her little poem and took a tiny bit,” suggesting that words themselves can be nourishment—though, of course, metaphorically. But the humour hides a deeper truth: for many writers, their own writing becomes sustenance, an emotional or intellectual food that feeds their soul.
There is something strangely comforting about reading what you've once written—like returning to an old home or flipping through a family album. Whether it's the enthusiasm of a bold idea or the warmth of love expressed in carefully chosen words, writers often revisit their own pages not out of ego, but from an honest longing to feel again what they once poured out.
I have seen teachers and students alike, brilliant minds, who have forgotten their own beautiful verses or essays. And yet, there are those who tuck away these pieces in diaries, margins, or notes—not just to archive but to return to, like one returns to a favorite meal. These words, once written, become a quiet companion, feeding us when the world feels too much, when hunger isn’t in the stomach but in the soul.
Readers, on the other hand, often look to extract life-blood from books. They don’t just want entertainment—they seek meaning, healing, truth. And what about poets? Poets want to see the world through their own crafted reflections. They describe nature not as it is, but as it resonates within them. Their ink becomes a mirror and their verses, the echo of their own heartbeat.
What is most beautiful—and perhaps most misunderstood—is that such a person, the one who writes and reads themselves, forgets time, hunger, and noise. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner fade into the background when a poet is lost in their lines. In that space, the body may be neglected, but the mind and spirit are wholly alive.
So yes, writers do feel hungry—but often, their hunger is not for bread. It’s for something deeper. And when they consume their own words, they aren’t being self-absorbed—they are being self-sustained.
As I introspect today, I believe writing doesn’t just express life—it also nourishes i

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