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Tara Webster Poem
Shadows protect the monsters in my head,
But why cant they protect me instead.
The doubts and thoughts haunt me,
It seems as my past lives taunt me.
Is it a crime to love the rush of adrenaline?
Must I love dopamine.
Are the monsters the ones creating my insecure social seams.
Or are my friends the monsters, burning me in gasoline.
Is it a crime, to love what is lost?
And if so, at what cost.
Society scares me to believe lies,
But my only questions are whos and whys.
So is it a crime to believe myself?
And is it a crime to think I dont need help?
If that is a crime, then so are you,
Since there is no way, not to be true.
Copyright © Tara Webster | Year Posted 2024
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Tara Webster Poem
I feel this every day,
Even when people pass away.
A mix of guilt for not being able to weep,
Not comprehending why it's so deep.
How can I not feel pain,
Is this what they call insane?
I do not know how to show how much I care,
At times I feel as though it isn't fair.
Why cry for someone already dead,
Have you not heard what the priests have said?
You have done nothing wrong,
Why cry and mourn for so long?
They left you so much,
They're the ones who will watch.
And feel guilt when you cry,
Asking god, wondering why.
Maybe I am cold hearted,
But I am who god created.
Why should I cry for a soul I'll never see,
When they know I love them and they love me.
Copyright © Tara Webster | Year Posted 2024
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Tara Webster Poem
I've heard many talk about honesty,
As though it is the best quality.
I know I hoped to be truthful,
But deep inside I acknowledge I was only brutal.
I've told them the horrible things many have done,
As a hypocrite, one could assume I held an empty gun.
I could pull the trigger,
But the bullet wouldn't speed past,
The only real difference would be the expressions so vast.
This would make me a liar,
but isn't that what the performance arts are?
the production is based on lies, but it seems as though it is the truth from afar.
Would being a liar truly be a sin?
If being truthful is what makes others hurt within.
One could consider every lie white,
For it may be the wrong words,
but compared to the honest, a liars' intentions are right.
Copyright © Tara Webster | Year Posted 2026
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Tara Webster Poem
The aeoniums, after much care, still do not grow,
His plight is of that, oh, how he cares for the flowers,
Though I believe he does not know.
His care for every and all,
Will result in his fall,
To the void, the pit, where only regret thrives,
Where the walls that prevent us from understanding each other shall grow tall.
If I was to regret a thing I had done,
It would be the crushing of those syringas,
So that I may live, unchained by the pressure of others,
So that I could breathe freely from my lungs,
I understand, it was necessary, so I mustn't feel remorse.
But his aeoniums, they still remain,
He preserves them, in the hopes that they will bloom once more,
Though in my mind, it is clear.
They have lived far too long to bloom a second time,
If he does not let go soon, he will miss his own life.
Copyright © Tara Webster | Year Posted 2026
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