Below are the all-time best Morgan Tate poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members
two hits and i’m hanging off cliffs, listening to water
watching moss fall like snowflakes.
nothing holding my heels down but gravity, irrelevant to me.
the little girl exploring the ocean floor, the caves that once held entrancing treasures.
even tactile pain drives me into a gust of euphoria.
my heart beats (slower than it should), but the trees don’t mind.
the four shades of green blend to create a forest-
with each exhale, branches move in tandem.
and a salty tear falls from my eye,
reminiscent of what once was here.
scared of odd little things:
leading to the outside world.
paranoia of unexpected guests,
curled under cupboards, and strangers stabbing on sidewalks.
i’m alone in my dark fantasies.
and yet, i’m unafraid.
i crave the reckless life, cheating, binging on drugs and sex and life.
the life where i’m the unknown girl that everyone knows.
wandering my mind, hollow now.
secrets tucked in the seams, invisible to passer-bys.
each step leaves an imprint behind,
dust settling into the crevices left by my toes.
the world empty,
immune to stolen glances between souls and half-hearted exchanges.
peace swept away,
pushed to the side by an old broom of straw and wood.
I try hard,
harder to breathe.
but all that is left to soothe my lungs
is the empty, grey air,
void of the warmth of shared space
sometimes I sneak away
to send a fluid rush to my veins,
entrancing my mind in a fictional fantasy.
alone, I bathe in my secrecy,
cleansing my skin with vibrant truths.
velvet tears slip down my cheek.
a gentle cry.
and the wet drops seep in the corners of my mouth
my lungs are full of my own salty, crystalline tears,
bringing buoyancy to boats that sail inside my veins.
as a rule, I try not to cry.
if a single tear is shed, who is to say that another will not follow?
compelling the rest to join
until I’ve immersed myself in the sea I’ve incepted,
all I see are the opalescent peaks of water colliding with my skin.
I can’t survive without the rush of an impulsive swallow or an impersonal touch.
I’m fueled by the adrenaline I get solely through sex and drugs, driving while high and chasing danger.
Piercing my skin with needles and pins,
willing to feel the worst to feel anything
sometimes, i get a wave of sadness over me.
i love you, and i want to be with you,
you deserve someone
a little less neurotic
a little more normal.
someone who is honest when she whispers, “I’m so happy”
under the covers.
you make me happy.
but you shouldn’t have to change me like that.
Is this who I am?
living in silence between highs,
desperately searching for a taste of anyone but myself.
My mind sustains itself on drugs, my body on adrenaline.
And I lay in my bed, drifting in and out of consciousness,
never closer to death than in that moment.
Am I scared?
Not of dying.
And no one knows that I’m slowly deteriorating.
It’s my fault.
Only in my real mind in the depression between highs.
And my body rots from the inside out as organs cease to function- one by one.
My heart is the last to go, continuing to fuel blood through my veins
there’s no use.
My skin chills and there is nothing more to me than an empty shell of what could have been.
The ridged scars etched into my skin no longer able to heal.
It’s too late.
I often question if I can feel the ecstasy I used to know,
that old familiar rush that seeps through my skin.
Do I have to swallow those little numbers
(one through eight)
to make myself whole?
Only then do I fail to differentiate the warmth of my skin from the atmosphere.
And my heart pounds like a change in gravity.
My skin starts to inhale and a tidal wave crashes into my senses-
I’m disoriented and dazed and fulfilled momentarily,
so I’m lost in a cycle,
counting by eights.
i’m splitting at the seams.
one arm gently pulls, the other yanks-
never a moment of silent bliss,
i bite my lip until crimson liquid seeps out the corners of my mouth
staining my peplum top.
distant memories creep into my mind to warn of the shame i’ll find
in this game of hide-and-seek
if i let them see that my smile isn’t real
and my blood prefers to stay in my veins.
So I don’t stop.
I move my lips into position
and wipe the blood from my chin.
And press ‘play’ on the cassette tape that reads:
"of course I’m happy",
because I can’t form those words myself.
Words can never capture the way my body feels on an empty day.
In space, there is freedom,
freedom to be something unexpected.
In the purgatory lies potential,
potential for choice.
The way I feel with my hand on my hip
and my back caved in
can't be put on paper.
The emotion lies in the negative space,
the feeling of skin and bone and muscle.
This is why I take hits, swallow those little pills-
to feel something that isn't humanly possible,
to set my brain in a frenzy that tells me to feel,
to really feel.
That ever-moving space just isn't there when I wake up.
My muscles don't quiver from anxious use
and the core of myself isn't quite so defined.
In the morning, my body is limp and inactive,
only to contrast the rush,
the charge of energy
I know I'll feel.