poem- new desk.

My fingers are strong,
so I think I’ll type a bit more.

Set up my new desk this evening.
Having scotch to celebrate.
Blue Label.

The old desk was tied
to my abuse.

Told myself it was OK.

How many years did I write on that?

How many rain drops fell.

Life is what we make it.
Unless you’re a child without a choice.

-M. Taggart

 

poem-

I’m disappointed in you.
Raising your fist,
in front of a child.
When the time is right,
I’ll tell you this to your face.
As I told you exactly what I thought
that night-

There’s no excuse for abuse, old man.
How’s your shame feel?

If you read things correctly-
Not your strongest characteristic-
You saw the disappointment
in my eyes, as you threatened to hit me
while your hand clenched my shirt,
fist back and raised.
I stared you down.

Coward.

I never raised my hands.
No need to.

No Grandfather should act this way
in front of a three year old.

And no father should put his finger
in the face of his daughter
and Yell, “Shut the Fuck up.”

That was the moment
you lost the entire narcissistic game you put into place.

Can’t bully a man like me.
I look forward to our next meeting.
I look forward to what I’ll say.
See, while in jail, I was told,
“Use your words.”

Seems to me you should chase wisdom’s tail.
Seems to me you never knew who you were, or are;
facades until completion won’t amount to truth.

I’ve had a lifetime of hardships.
I’m Not a follower.
Told you this.

You didn’t listen.

A narcissist never does.

-M. Taggart

They say to not call a narcissist out. I disagree. I did. And I will continue to. Their rage is that of a five year old child. Small. Weak. I’m a narcissists worst nightmare.

Odd Walking Thoughts – between

No, I’m fine, just don’t be like how I was today. The boy looked in the pool of water he’d been stepping in. He lifted his boot from the water and watched the rings form and push outwards, “No! Outward!” His father slammed the door. The boy smashed hit boot into the ringlets with no face. A space fell between them all.

-M. Taggart

poem

My father had gone away
Put the car in reverse
and left us

I walked to Gram’s house
found her inside

still thinking of his mistake

I was nine

Split family
guilt trips
abuse

Gram
I said

can I be here

 

-M. Taggart

Poem – Spread the Word

the more you understand about an abuser
the more you hate them
They tell you not to-
Don’t lean on anger.
Anger is the wall
that broke through!
So fuck the talking heads
that tell how to feel
when they weren’t the ones
peeling their minds off
at the age of five.

Hello,
my name is reason,
logic is my cousin.

-M. Taggart

Poem – tiny pieces

Nothing is as accessible as our own thoughts.
Yet we twist, pull, harm,
and even hide them on ourselves.
It seems especially so when
pertaining to our mental health.
We know the truth. We know what to do.
But life’s tracks laid in front of us aren’t
always a thing of beauty and taking
the correct action can often mean
destroying lives. Ah, the pull of loyalty
on a child’s heart is to pull them into
tiny pieces- pieces that don’t always
fit back together,.

-M. Taggart

Let’s not play pretend – Odd Walking Thoughts

We’ll go here now. It’ll not matter because the filled glass will be put away. It’s not for them to do this. When they do we leave. It’s not truth and we know this. Because we know we cannot care about them or how they came to think. Their decision is their own and then there’s more.  There’s always more it’s odd that we continue to care.  A cob fell from the stock. A boy picked it from the mud and wondered where it came from. He turned and faced the morning sun. He wanted to ask.

-M. Taggart

 

O.W.15

A Short Story

A Short Story
Written by
-M. Taggart
Non Fiction

A Short Story

 

It was her birthday. She wanted to talk. A lot. I like to listen, but had planned on reading a book. I ordered a Guinness.

She told me she was lucky to make it. She was now 60. She didn’t say the number out-loud, instead she faced me and asked me to count her fingers.

For the next half hour I listened to her story. She had lived in foster care, had been abused, physically and mentally, found herself at 18 with a vicious tongue and lost herself completely in her twenties.

She had attempting suicide multiple times. The last attempt landed her in a coma and in the hospital. During the explanation of her life she bounced from age-to-age and from addiction to health. By her mid-thirties she had once again found herself and had stopped drinking. She also stopped using drugs.

She found both again and lived another round of almost not living. She was homeless for a time. She vomited feces while she was dying. She woke up on a Monday, put her make-up on, and lived.

I didn’t bother trying to read my book. I wanted her to finish her story. This happens to me often when I sit at the bar. I don’t mind. When I don’t want to talk, I stand in the corner, alone, with a book and a beer.

She is very kind. Full of love for life and happy to have not died during her attempts to end hers. She told me this while pouring her new beer into an empty pint glass. Her eyes widened as she started a new chapter of her story.

Slowly, I entered small facts about myself into the conversation. “You lived in Turners Falls, MA?!” she replied? “No, I went to High School in that town. And Turners was a border town to my home town.” “No wonder you had anger! There’s nothing there!”

That wasn’t the reason I had anger. I love that town.

She knew the drug houses, the homeless issue, the violence, the left over edge one has after spending any length of time in that region. And here we sat, in a pub located in Maine.

She asked if I was familiar with Greenfield. “Yes. Greenfield is where I was in one-too-many fights and also where I spent time in jail.”

She told me she lived in the woman’s home in Greenfield and that’s where she got clean. It took over a year, but they were amazing to her and saved her life.

I told her I wrote a short story that had much to do with the small town mindset of that area. And there we sat, enjoying our lives in the now, talking about the past. About the very town where I’ve lost friends due to addiction and violence. The very town where I found love for the first time and where I learned driving alone late at night, with the windows down and radio off, was a form of freedom that I was only just beginning to understand.

 

-M. Taggart