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Megan Hundley Jan 2012
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.
Roars before speeches afraid the monster will claw away what's left of me. Or maybe the monster is brushstrokes and I continue to be Free.
bradley martin May 2017
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
the word
     and words such as
hunger
     invoke such emotions.
hungar seems more satirical in practice.

— The End —