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Wilbur Mctaggart Williams Poem
Although I am different, although I am bland.
You still wanted me, you took my hand.
I think of myself as an observer, I watch through the class, as my peers made friends, as time ticked past.
Empty tables and assignments done alone. I was a forgotten hound left with no bone.
I know I am strange, I am peculiar and bleak, but you make me happy.
You help me on my feet.
Quiet gifts of bottlecaps and treats, something I treasure, those tabs I keep.
I locked myself away, I was scared and alone.
But with you I feel as though I am at home.
Copyright © Wilbur Mctaggart Williams | Year Posted 2022
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Wilbur Mctaggart Williams Poem
Through grief you depart; remaining only in my weeping heart.
I know you’re not to blame; you’ve alleviated your heartbreaking pain.
So as you rest, pale, and calm.
I’ll mourn your loss, but with no harm.
For you have loved, and you have lost.
And if loving you meant I'd pay this cost;
I’d do it again with no second thought.
For you have loved me when I have not.
Copyright © Wilbur Mctaggart Williams | Year Posted 2022
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Wilbur Mctaggart Williams Poem
You aren’t like many, you’re cold winds and moss.
A mind crafted of silver and copper, of sin and of saints.
Deep royal blues and silverish greys.
A loyal ocean washed over with a cold haze.
A worn cottage with painted shells and tainted windowpanes.
Copyright © Wilbur Mctaggart Williams | Year Posted 2022
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Wilbur Mctaggart Williams Poem
Discomfort and despair
Life’s sharp-toothed snare
My heart beats slower,
Its broken melody holds me there
street dogs howl with their fright
as the snow falls, I’m lost to the night
my body is cold, my blood stains the streets
even in death, I am incomplete.
Copyright © Wilbur Mctaggart Williams | Year Posted 2022
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Wilbur Mctaggart Williams Poem
Delving into insanity,
The art of delusion.
It roots back to our deepest desire for validation.
Or maybe I’m looking into it too much,
But it seems the people like you and I, the ones most tormented.
Are the ones who think the most.
Some see it as sin,
And some see it as sensible.
But the true answer; insanity.
Insanity is what creates the most beautiful things.
But at what cost?
Those who we now admire; Van Gogh, Leonardo, Shakespeare…
Were painted as delusional in their lives.
Art, poetry, music, and love is what we most desire,
But most delve into insanity trying to get it.
Our truest desire as living creatures are validation and verification.
The most addictive form being in love.
Burning to cooling,
Painful to soothing,
Unforgivable to sympathetic,
Love.
Love in its most horrific form.
You see,
That’s the terror of love; it makes one know,
If they could go back knowing what they know now; they’d do it the same.
Love is an addiction, an addiction we adore.
But when one’s desire for the drug grows too much,
They’re seen as insane, tormented, and delusional.
Most deserve these titles,
There is a firm line between obsession and love.
But when done right, when respected and nurtured, love can heal.
But love, addictive and living to die; is what we go mad for.
But does that not make the risk far more beautiful?
Who knows, maybe so or maybe not.
Who am I to say?
But I know; the most horrific pain, would be worth the risk.
Copyright © Wilbur Mctaggart Williams | Year Posted 2023
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Wilbur Mctaggart Williams Poem
When all has fallen,
when hell is outside your door,
the whispers of monsters become wallowing screams-
and tar flows through your veins.
Water the dandelions growing between concrete tiles.
Even when you are too far gone, use your dying breath to help.
Rub the back of a child who fell from their bike,
Say thank you regardless of who will hear,
Be kind, for cruelty reaps sorrow.
A mind that destroys is the same that could heal.
Copyright © Wilbur Mctaggart Williams | Year Posted 2022
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Wilbur Mctaggart Williams Poem
Loss is like a broken window.
In summer and spring, you do not notice it.
It is just a fact; the window is broken; it does not matter.
But,
as the cold creeps in,
the loss becomes suffocating.
The glass is cracking.
You can see all of the marks, the cuts, the cold.
You sit there, no matter how hard you try.
The window will always remain broken.
You cannot replace the window; it would not be the same.
So, you live with it.
You sob and scream.
You run and you hide.
You will stare, and you will glare, cursing the cold.
Sometimes, in the darkest hours of the coldest nights.
You’ll watch broken window.
And eventually, another corner will break.
Worse cold, worse anger, more pain.
But,
Winter does not last forever.
One day, the cold won’t hurt as deeply.
You’ll find it is spring.
You will accept the glass is broken.
It will not take away the broken pain; but it will make it easier.
You will learn how to keep the cold bearable.
Maybe a curtain or a box to block the weeping winds.
But you can never get rid of the window, no matter how hard you try.
And one day,
On our last days, we’ll become a break in someone’s window.
But a home with broken windows, worn down floors and peeling paint.
Those are the houses we call home.
The homes where grief is buried deep in your bones,
Those are the homes where you are not alone.
Copyright © Wilbur Mctaggart Williams | Year Posted 2022
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Wilbur Mctaggart Williams Poem
At first, I thought it was only other people who confuse me; convinced myself I didn’t understand how to socialize.
Over the years I’ve come to the chilling conclusion this confusion is merely a side effect, a desperate diversion conjured by my brain to keep me from realizing I am broken.
That I'm the defective member of society trying to hide, not only from everyone but from myself.
My own foggy eyes. I am but what I am not.
My existence is an illusion, a hologram; a photograph at first glance is normal- nothing more, nothing less; but the longer exposed to the gaping eyes of logic, the more inhuman it becomes.
The photograph no longer resembles anything human, anything capable of life. This thing that lurks behind its frame is far worse than any lost mind.
Cut from its womb by shattered glass- blood and flesh dripping, clinging, and clogging whatever it once was.
Once easily covered and excused has revealed itself to be nightmares beyond recognition.
It lurks within all that breathe, but these breaths are drowned in tar.
Those voices are nothing but the corruption that comes with comprehension. Humankind, such a silly name for a species anything but.
Copyright © Wilbur Mctaggart Williams | Year Posted 2022
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Wilbur Mctaggart Williams Poem
Although you’ll never feel the same,
I do not want you to take any blame.
I wish you not to seek me out.
Just believe me, I hold no doubt.
I yearn and adore, cherish, and care, yet all I can give you, is this foolish prayer.
A hopeless letter, written with ink-stained hands, a useless poem, and a hopeless man.
But if you were to feel the same; my heart would jump, I’d lose my voice, because why would you make such a peculiar choice?
A choice to love, to care for me.
Although it’s not true, I still dream of you.
I would hold you close; I’d love you with no shame.
Because the greatest blessing would be to soothe your pain.
Love you through anger, through pain, through fear, but I know that is just a dream.
A dream I’ll hold near.
All I wish is for you to be happy,
Even if it isn’t with me.
So, I will do no more, I’ll leave you be.
Even if it does end up ruining me.
Copyright © Wilbur Mctaggart Williams | Year Posted 2023
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Wilbur Mctaggart Williams Poem
A curse of the mind, body, and soul.
As the blood returns, I will take the toll.
The discomfort and shame,
Pads and distain.
I will beg, to be like the real boys.
Flat chested and tall bodied,
broad shoulders and a deep voice.
A dream I chase, a losing race.
A constant reminder,
A reminder of what I will never be.
As I stand hunched, my cursed being.
I can pull on a hoodie, suppress my chest.
But the blood never ceases; the pain will never rest.
The blood will flow, my stomach will twist.
All I can do is beg, beg for it to one day go amiss.
But that day will never come,
The shame will rise.
A curse of my life, a curse till I die.
Copyright © Wilbur Mctaggart Williams | Year Posted 2023
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