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Best Poems Written by Morgan Tate

Below are the all-time best Morgan Tate poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Fearful, Fearless

i’m scared.
scared of odd little things:
glass doors,
windows,
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.

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Like Diamonds

two hits and i’m hanging off cliffs, listening to water

drip.

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.

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Unfinished

i’m lost.

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.

oxygen dissipates,

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.

Details | Morgan Tate Poem

Breathe, Suffocate

velvet tears slip down my cheek.

a gentle cry.

and the wet drops seep in the corners of my mouth

until

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,

and soon

all I see are the opalescent peaks of water colliding with my skin.

Details | Morgan Tate Poem

Little Pale Lies

sometimes, i get a wave of sadness over me.

i love you, and i want to be with you,

but

you deserve someone

a little less neurotic

and

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.

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Needles and Pins

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

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Play, Pause

i’m splitting at the seams.

torn,

one arm gently pulls, the other yanks-

violently.

never a moment of silent bliss,

i bite my lip until crimson liquid seeps out the corners of my mouth

and drips

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.

Details | Morgan Tate Poem

I Know the Harm I Cause

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.

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Empty

I'm deteriorating.
You don't know how little I eat, 
how much I ****,
that I use drugs.
You see me- behaving quite naturally,
doing the things I need to do to prove:
 I'm alive. 

I'm alive, but for how long?
I turn my lips upward to pretend the signals aren't there.
My heart fluctuates and pulsates off beat-
my internal metronome needs repair.
I'm out of breath.
Am I out of life?

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Life In Monochrome

Blindly I wander, incapable of feeling anything but
numb.
Unable to see anything but the desolate space in my cone-shaped view.

It's been some time since I took a breath,
let a crude wisp of color seep in my lungs.

In one moment past, I inhaled long and full.
I viewed the prismatic color that existed just beyond physical touch.
I infused my breath with the shades and the shapes,
a syrupy stained-glass.

If only for a moment,
If only for a moment.