poem

Sometimes I don’t want to write
and I do anyway
The voices are different
The walls are the same
and not, too
Doesn’t much matter
I’ll always write
and the walls
will always be there

-M. Taggart

Poem-

We sat next to ourselves near a pool of water
A few things we Remember
childhood horror
running from walls
from mushroomed
walls
A deep purple came

We shouldn’t have been

The water spun and rippled
found an old friend, though.

-M. Taggart

see – DID

It’s cold.
I need to talk about what happened.
Fingers typing aren’t always me.
Please though, come.
The floor again is open.
Eyes that shouldn’t be are.
Don’t fade, please not that.
We’ll do the best we can.

 

It’s good to see you.

Odd Walking Thoughts -The Siren of a Generation

You may as well keep your bells, your moments to move, your crushing authority- I can’t hear myself think. I’ve decided to give this all back. This all started when I’d forgotten how to speak. I once was so widely heard, that everything came to pass, and then there was nothing. ¬†Within that nothing came variations of being, and though I still couldn’t talk, I learned to listen. I wanted to ask the darkness if colors could speak for me. The darkness replied by giving back my voice. -M. Taggart