Poem

I was gifted with a keen memory.
So much so that when
I recount a particular scenario
participants unwilling to hear
their truth question my sanity.

And I’m fine with that.

-M. Taggart

Poem

I can’t write you into emotion and leave.

I went bald while in college.

That’s why I have a hat, I learned how
to wear it in Turners Falls

Tough people there
tough kids with bats

I was told my forehead was too big.
Wore my hat.

Backward.
Been in a few fights over that.
Sometimes I win.

Bars look funny when you’re on the inside.

It was a girl btw
who told me my forehead was too big

It’s easy to feel ugly.

-M. Taggart

Up This Road

Up this road just a few miles more
is where I lived my worst memories.
Gill. That’s the name of the town.
Lots of cows, brooks and a river.
An editor is trying to help me
push forward with my story.
He’s waiting for my adjustments.
Every time I open it, I’m triggered.
I’ve updated nothing. Maybe I should
drive to this spot, walk a few miles.
Maybe that’ll unlock my leash.
That’s the thing about severe
childhood trauma. You can lock it away,
compartmentalize, as always, but
when it comes down to it it’s
as alive as it always was. Fight or Flight.
I chose to fight. I’m stuck on FIGHT.
Up that road, just a little ways, holds some
of my best memories. Mother. Brothers. Life.

-M. Taggart

This

Wanna be controlled?
follow the news
like it’s God
Then tell your friends
and family all about it
Splash in the wake
of toxicity
Make it want you
more

-M. Taggart

thank you, Dad


Poem- Intelligence from the heart #pros

I believe empathy to be the
foundation of humanity’s intelligence;
empathy is not a game in which we
pull the emotional strings of another-
to wish to ensnare is to continuously
bellow at the very depths of the bottom.
Empathy is the light. Empathy is the
strength to call a stranger brother
while recognizing their pain is just,
and knowing the path to their healing
as we extend our hand to pull them up.

-M. Taggart

Odd Walking Thoughts

All of the ugliness is why. It’s why we sit in front of reflecting windows, looking, wanting; a push of a something is more than nothing, it’s what we wish to be-
while the word of the ready readies, “I miss you,” normalizing time, crackling, being, and seeing the window watching ourselves turn to stone like the un-shifting; unwillingly we see it so nebulously, we crawl.