I can’t write as hard as I want to. My society can handle it, but the agents controlling the pathways to the publishers cannot and the publishers cannot. Something needs to change. The best current writers are not the ones sitting on bookstore shelves.
That’s my opinion.
(I’m lucky and blessed to have been published by amazing publications. I’m referring to the large publishers that tend to publish the same old, same old. The best piece I’ve submitted to agents once triggered this response, “Yea, I can’t touch that.”)
I count thoughts
one of them died in my arms
and I talked with it anyway
That’s the thing about truth,
you can’t control it,
and I love that.
Some parents take their kids down a notch and some parents want to lift their children during their happiest moments. I sit on the side uplifting children and the others can play with their personality disorders in the mirror.
I take a deep breath, close my eyes,
and see the cloak they wear as pride;
like a grimace covered in spittle as the white
foam collects in the corners of their mouths
begging to stretch and expand.
They express a stench of laughter, launching
tiny droplets in hopes to expose those who
have yet to see properly the slow motions of their
darkness creeping in; it’s within your own darkness
where you may find yourself, it’s within their
darkness where you’ll certainly lose yourself.
I open my eyes and calmly smile, knowing fully
the history of pride.
A mother’s murmur
lying beside the gravestone
of humanity gives peace
and tranquility a final hope
Come to the shadowed
spaces where the echoes live
Sometimes we look out at the morning and don’t care about the birds. – M. Taggart
“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”
-Robert Frost. Excerpt from The Road Not Taken.
whispers became screams never said. shower doors, with soap, and windows, watched. the door didn’t shut, and the did, did nothing, while the smiling whores of everything told of how to hush. things were done while walls stood vacant, birds of the morning sang, and heaven hung low. -M. Taggart