- You wrote it.
- You didn’t care if you received 1 or 100 likes.
- You sat and bled just as Hem said to do and it makes perfect fucking sense to you.
- You read your work the next day and squirmed. You’re onto it. Keep going.
- You haven’t any choice but to write so you do. And you do. And you do.
- A family member read one of your pieces and said nothing. Instead they cried.
- You love yourself enough to write. So fucking write.
I took these two photos while in Northern Maine last week. I’d like to offer them to all of you who take the time to read what I’ve written.
No strings. I don’t want credit. I just want to say thank you. If you like one of them, it’s yours. Use it/them however you would like.
when no one’s there to pour a sonnet down your throat
easing your expressions of pain as your scorching metallic rage
sets itself against its blade-
shiver first with an angle and propel thy teeth against a hue from the heavens
The brook rambled on. Pushing forward, begging the boy to continue. The boy wanted to adventure further. Though the sun had started to dip just below the tree line, he wasn’t afraid. He wondered if he had enough time. The boy listened to a voice whisper from above. ‘If we placed time into a bucket with water and soap, what do you believe might happen to the bubbles? Two options. The bubbles would become gone instantaneously because time would have run out. Or, the bubbles would last forever because time granted it so.’ The boy didn’t move. Heart pounding thinking of time. ‘What if I move now? What will happen?’ -M. Taggart copyright 2017
Death has a sound unlike any other-
-M . Taggart
I’m working on a poem that starts with the above. Thank you for reading.
While the house is calm your hallway board walks. So simple. The music calms your face. A temple stretches, asking forgiveness, as a walking hiccup with a polished lure
speaks for regulations on behalf of all floors. We placed them so nicely for all to see; now lay your head pretty. Lay it for we.
time doesn’t die
such a thing can’t be-
go on and watch your circus
let’s be alone, where the silence is real.
into a sunken cupboard we climb. never were. come back. the voice behind the door. come back the door. come back the walls. come back our steps. for half a smile never meant for us. to grind our remaining sight. come back. -our Tamerlane has been orphaned.
Click below for more Odd Walking Thoughts
I stare at stupidity as though it can stare back.