I’m almost ready to write.
It’s a strange feeling knowing that I’m putting if off.
A purposeful thing found in the back of a thought,
lingering, like a vibrating sponge left on the beach
just out of reach of the waves.

Soon though, I will.
Maybe I’ll remember some of it.

-M. Taggart

Poem – puddles in between

He was always sure about walking in the rain,
but not about which puddle to step in.
So, he stood with patience, peculiarly
picking and choosing where to place his feet.
His mind always ahead, his body somewhere behind,
always adoring these walks in the rain.

-M. Taggart


Poem – never knew

Climb into the cubburd.
Close the door

I’m going to tell you
about the time I wouldn’t
let myself write

I had to go to the bathroom
While going
I told myself I needed breakfast

While eating breakfast
I told myself I needed to clean the house

While cleaning
I told myself
I needed to work

While working I told myself
I needed to exercise

While exercising
I felt shame for not writing

I cannot write

I am no good
what would it matter

It is dark in this cupboard

This is when I realized-
I never knew

-M. Taggart


It’s awkward talking to nobody when it’s yourself

Have you ever seen you
walking underneath where you belong
catching thoughts with your mouth

It’s not what you want to do
not really

But, the floor has other ideas
and when you close your eyes
you see more than you should

Again back-
top-side, walking nicely
almost singing


-M. Taggart



Our bones feel dirty after talking with them.
As if parasites are their words; each landing
and burying themselves within our skin, burrowing
until finally entering bone. Where they live
the rest of their feeble days knowing we’re unable
to wash the innards of Self. – Each day,
we grow stronger as they grow weaker.
We know this. They know this. Which is why
they struggle desperately to toss their toxins.

-M. Taggart



There’s an unfinished poem in my drafts file.
Apparently I wrote it last night.
I don’t remember writing it,
but while reading it, I remember having read it,
and that I was tired and was unable to finish it.
It reads like a crying child who was never
given the support they needed.
Which, makes sense.
Now, I don’t know if I want
to keep it exactly as it is;
to let it live the way it was born,
or to recreate the lines and ‘finish’ the work.
Maybe I’ll never read it again.
I don’t think that’s true though.
Something about it is already
alive and even if I don’t
publish it, the poem will still be.

-M. Taggart

My About:

Little Sticks – A Poem

I like words. We all have them.
Yet, we use them so differently.
Some flow beautifully from mouths,
while others need to write them.
They can be stretched, measured for intent,
delivered with impact, or even severity, and all
each of them are, are tiny little sticks. Sticks bent,
and curled; all lined up nicely to make meaning of
our thoughts so others might also engage in our curiosities.

-M. Taggart


Thank you for reading and being with me. I’m thankful for all of my peers on this platform.