Tag Archives: writing

Day Twenty Seven.

27 Apr


Don’t mind me, dear,
as I push you toward this rooftop,
right up to the very edge,
as close as you can get to the very heavens themselves,
as close as you can get to the air and the atmosphere–
And, dear, don’t mind me
as I grab your mouth and pry those stubborn lips apart and force you shout it from there, from the rooftops,
from the top of the world,
that you love me.
And I’ll make you shout it again and again and again–
For enough time has passed now, and you must shout me back into your arms or say nothing at all.
But I will no longer abide by your whispering.

Day Twenty Six.

26 Apr

Moon Haiku
(Lament No More)

my miserable
moon, when will you realize
that he may own the
sky, but you control the tides?
he burns; you consume.

Day Twenty Five.

25 Apr

The Rhymer


I began to tire of all these poems about you.

Catharsis by way of rhyme, or pentameter, or haiku.


All the hidden words, all the hidden meanings,

Solely about you–how it was, how I was feeling.


And so I set to banish you from the ink of this pen,

Set to relegate you to the past, how things were then.


But a little problem manifested itself immediately at the start,

It seemed I neglected to banish you from my heart.


But what is so wrong with you being poetic fodder?

I need subjects, ideas, words–are you really such a bother?


A new plan began to form, a seed growing in my head.

Rather than banish you, I will wake you up instead.


You will be my muse, my creativity, my never-will-part

Until we deal with these remnants of you still clinging to my heart.


And so rather than say goodbye, I will say hello again.

And put you to work, by way of this pen.

Day Twenty Four.

24 Apr

Payless Shoes

Do you have these shackles in my size?
Yes, I am going to a special event, thank you for asking.
And I really do prefer to be encumbered by shiny
insecurities, self-doubt, and plenty of personal psychological

Ma’am? Make sure they will be tight around my feet?
Really tight; and a little sparkly,
too, for the man that will come in my life.
A woman with sparkly shackles on her own feet?
Please—it’s romance heaven.

Hon? I will need accessories, too.
I’ll take a few specific chains for my wrists:
self-hatred, sabotage, venom directed to those
of my own gender (because you know we can’t be
trusted), and unnecessary blame, because, well,
you can’t go to this particular event without a scapegoat.


No bag for me, dear.
I intend to walk out of here with these things on,
and I certainly intend on turning heads.
But can you please help me to my destination?
I can’t walk.

It’s just in that corner over there, yes,
in that windowless room.
It’s a beautiful, dark corner, isn’t it? I made it myself.
Yes, just close that door and be sure to lock it.


Life begins!

Day Twenty Three.

23 Apr

Mourning Becomes the Body Electric.

I move from grief to giddy
like a shadow,
passing between the thresholds
of two vastly different worlds.
keep moving me and keep wounding me,
for I’d rather feel everything than nothing at all.

Day Twenty Two.

22 Apr

Alphabet Epiphany
(For X)

At no surprise to me, you never admitted fault,
Believing that I was far too generous in my
Certainty of us, of you, of this thing of ours, to notice.
Dear, you underestimated me.
Everything was so clear, so plain,
From the beginning.
Going forth, though, I was a bit aware that
Honesty wasn’t your strongest suit, yes, but
I was in that particular place, where
Judging you was not as important as
Keeping you, which I so
Longed to do.
My priorities have shifted, however,
Necessitating this little conversation.
Of course, you will dismiss me—
Putting me down, as you like to do;
Questioning my values, my intelligence, my will;
Reasoning that I have returned to my old ways;
So sure that
Tomorrow will bring changed minds and
Unabashed declarations of a resurgent love.
Vows are vows, you will say,
We have to stay together. But I will still ask you to leave,
Yearning for but knowing that we will never reach the
Zenith of us, of you, of this thing of ours.

Day Sixteen.

16 Apr

Learning, Gratitude

To you.
The heart should never be
so revealed, so unaware of where
the results will land.
No more waiting when the answers
are usually quite clearly there.
No matter if you were moved.
Time to move on.
Thank you.


To you.
Too open, too fast, too trusting.
Too bad, too bad, too bad.
In the end, you actually missed me.
In the end, I walked away with no regrets,
warmly blanketed by the comfort
of full circle.
Thank you.


To you.
Ah, you.
There are no words–
well, there are words–
but which ones?
(Blissfully) blinded, (glaringly) sighted, (then) goodbye.
I carved you out of the clay of perfection
and quietly watched the hand of truth smash you to pieces…


Still you.
Still thinking about it.
Still sighted, yes, but no longer
looking back in youthful anger.
Now, a sad, adult understanding of what came to be,
what became of you.
Nevertheless–regardless–in spite of–
thank you, thank you, thank you.



Sincerely, Taj

Dear World, I have stuff to say, so get cozy. Here, I've got cupcakes.

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