On Writing

you can write
or that

you can write about

or a handshake
gone wrong

You can write
about how you
feel while looking
at your sleeping

Or about

and how it’s your fault,
But always


-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


Poem – Never End

What you are is a brilliant beacon-
Shifting nose-to-nose along asylum walls
Concrete has this smell
Especially when recently wet
They try and hide the dry
As they try and hide You
But the same smell is there
No matter who They Are
and instead of wanting to know you
They’ve chosen you as their supply
and hide away any light they find

-M. Taggart

Dedicated to Megan.

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.




He spoke inside himself asking for direction-
When direction came he blundered sadly
wiping away all memory of having asked

A pebbled, turned over by boot, searched
for eternal abyss, wanting only to know the
depths of nothing toward the end all

-M. Taggart