I don’t care about cliques
A few people trying to tell themselves
they will transcend
I’d rather unite
It’s a bit like walking a thought
down a washed out road
The severity of the gone-ness
needs no transcending
The road needs more rocks
I don’t ask permission to be myself.
That Bothered an old man
who once put his hands on me.
Doesn’t any more.
Sky looks nice tonight.
Discontent and unaware, please don’t let’s wake our minds and stay there a while.
Some cabins have memories.
Location: Foothills of the White Mountains, NH.
Photo taken by Matt’s phone.
It’s dreary watching rain wash away the snow.
Not the feeling of depression dreary.
Simply the visual of what was,
back again to being unseen.
Forgoing the hollowed feeling of pain-
A mind at ease may fill the caverns.
Although, I fear, if we achieve to make
all of our memories obsolete, where then
do we stand, and what mirrors will we know.
To read is to think-
So says the setting sun,
washing away the definition
of my rambling mind,
as I read the writings of
the Sun’s last grip.
Not long ago someone recommended I write a particular story
about an idea they had.
It doesn’t work like that for me.
I told them, no thanks.
I write about what sinks into me.
I need to know it. To feel it.
It could be a story about a piece of wood.
Or even about a dog who only ran sideways.
But I’d need to know the wood and the dog.
It’s possible I could write the story for them, but
it’d never be mine and I would feel detached.
Even if it was my own father, and it was.
It just doesn’t work like that for me.
I’ve literally been ‘given’ lines of poetry in my dreams. I wake up, do my job, and write them down. -M. Taggart
This thought was spurred into being by an intriguing post written by Angel Zuma. It appears that Angel is a relatively new blogger.
Please, let’s flood Angel’s blog with support! Visit Angel’s post here:
Even in darkness there’s a footprint. -M. Taggart