"hungar" poems
i am going to bed bungray,
so that one day,
when hungar is no longer served on my plate
i will know what hungar was
and i will be full
and i will be thankful
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 1:14 AM UTC
Just because my eyes
are slightly more red than the
average, and my ears listen more to
roars
than normal talk. My fingers are
more greedy, reaching for things
never yearned
before
I met you. Why now do familiar faces wish to
pour into my sharp eyebrows
speeches
I don't care much to hear. Does
it matter that running feels more
natural, instinct that I should feel
afraid
but I don't. Do I care to
figure out
the monster
that reflects back into my cheekbones.
What does it hungar for? What does it
know? I'm not sure if I have the
will
to overcome it. Or the ability to pry away
the nails that resemble too much
the rage of
claw
marks. Dare I take a light into these dark
thoughts and search for long sentences
that traveled
away
from the mess. What do I expect to find, what
is it I look to now for answers? Should I
stand on
what's left
of this old bridge with these rotten logs and
aging secrets? This sight- is it part
of me
or is it just a sad painting I keep confusing
with a sad memory. My heart aches for beauty
in the intriguing hues of gray.
or maybe
this gallery, this mueseum of
inner maps will lead to new rooms.
Red eyes, angry claws, mighty roars,
sharp eyebrows
the monster is
what I believed to represent. Perhaps
it is only a mere splattering of
brushstrokes
I allowed my mind to be absorbed into. Like
all good art, it captured my soul, paralyzed.
and I
was unsure of reality. How funny
it is to be so lost and not know it. Now
I see clearly, now I can
continue
to know. Know what I hungar for, what
I crave. I am what I want
to be
and that is as comforting as walking
onto a porch to observe the sun as it
dives into solid ground.
Free
as the cool night air, welcoming
the stars and all the promise a new
morning has to offer.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 1:54 PM UTC