The real meal zeal at the table of no appeal

These tears I cry are only the object of a layered sigh.
Although within I’m dry, this machine am I, and grinds
inside every time I dine. But the need to confide as
the blissful bride is this ache in my heart and in the side
of my mind and I would lie to say that I’m fine or that
the real hunger I hide, for uniformly it abides as a story
with no beginning, and I can truly say that I’ve tried.