Sometimes you can reach for a thought-
much like finding yourself
-M. Taggart
Tag: Thought
The capital city of thought
My treehouse with a thumb
talks with an image less than itself.
It mesmerizes mischief with Mayhem,
like a tree watching its own growth
on a ledge. Waterfall below. Thoughts
in between. Taking longer than expected,
the zipper of life made for a humble tremble.
-M. Taggart
Stick-to-it-iveness identity?
And old thought can try
to twist and bend itself
into a new thought.
Sometimes it works,
but mostly it sticks out.
-M. Taggart
Possible?
I wonder if a bird
cares about the loss of a tree.
-M. Taggart
Poem
saw a trapped window inside our mind
there was no one to open it
caught in the construct of a thought
-M. Taggart
Oh what a Dragon
Where does an epiphany end and a thought think. -M. Taggart
poem – into the drain
Sometimes I’m so cold
that I can’t fathom how bones
can feel that way
but then I jump in the shower,
make it real, real hot,
the steam fills the room,
and my skin prickles and becomes red-
I’ve become so hot that I force myself
to remember the deep cold that pushed
me to the shower, the cold that buried itself
into the marrow of my being and imprisoned thought.
I wonder if this is how a caged mind thinks, or feels,
or if it even has memory at all if only bars serve as an observation point.
As the last drops of water skim down our legs and drip toward the drain.
-M. Taggart
Let it fly
The unfortunate part of a thought, is sitting on it. -M. Taggart
Poem – Fill
I admire words that
infect my mind. I want
them to bend and twist
so I feel them. I’ve torn
pages from favorite stories
and stuffed them into my
mouth. I don’t know why.
Or, I do, and I’m not being
honest. Much like when an
author writes for an audience
rather than the raging
passion wishing to be seen;
truly, and finally freed.
-M. Taggart
Contact:
Short
You have to go, to go. Push on, pushing on. I’m smoking a cigar inside. First time in years. I accidentally put it out in my son’s cereal bowl dish with my spit. I didn’t want that. I had fun lighting it again with a wooden match made of what the fuck fire.
I’m coming to terms with my life. I have terms and Life doesn’t. So we’re both sitting here with this cigar watching smoke. I once read that a blind man wouldn’t smoke because he couldn’t see the smoke rise around him. I get it. I wouldn’t smoke either if I couldn’t see the difference in each rising movement. Those columns are different each time so that’s where we’d miss the everything about what we wanted to be.
Anyway, I type so letters become words around thought.
Cheers,
Matt
mtaggartwriter 