I am Sylvia Plath and decide to commit a suicide
Before night, before midnight, before any incident spoils my intention that goes totally upward, or any single communication proves it is life: generally moves on haphazard, neither do I want be introduced as a horrible criminal never been merciful to grandiose thought in keeping self magnified or words very elegance. Away… don’t look at me in this way since reality is so horrified, since I’m a goddess with only one eye lying beside the lake and playing with water flowing on the line of the green jungle what we call it life to shot the fingers on heavenly drops and sing the song of eternity to confess: I’m not as honest as other gods attached to the mirror of the wall with four eyes to reflect the realities of people of come and go, creating flickering and shaking atmosphere over my sights that makes me semi- blind when three other eyes remaining behind the mirror and one eye -goddess is not trustworthy enough in exposing the murmurings of the woman reposing on river side in pledge of tuning the song of solitude with silent outcry:
La La La *** La La La *** La La La ***
My Love:
How creative you are, not cruel at all, just very creative in exploring the long distance between doves of love and very cunning in employing people to excavate a chasm of agony, torturer and blood between you and I… I’ me Sylvia Plath and decide to commit a suicide, before maroon crimson night, before children know what their mother really decide, before horrible fish rises abruptly inward to devour my heart or demolish all my beauties of ladylike in shadow of your last statement warned me “ for what you are still in dark?”
Dark! What a brilliant statement in the first and last and lost time, on duration of nights insomnia or feeling nausea when autumnal rain attacked the yellow red leaves to fall to forecast that unity is so far. When nights’ owl very kindly repeats your heart dark…dark…when the mirror broken, eyes spatter on all over the world, god and goddess remain eye less, completely blind, and our last reminder…your last medal on my heart still dark.
I am Sylvia Plath and decide to commit a suicide.
Jun 14, 2020
Jun 14, 2020 at 4:02 AM UTC
When we dead people awaken it is so late
late
that cannot call it even delayed
Asking who those out of grave wandering...
people
>
<
salvation preachers after doomsday
>
<
may
>
<
but now bundle of zombies dancing with wind’s hey…hey…
May 28, 2020
May 28, 2020 at 1:13 AM UTC
When we were not taking so serious
dig the land to make a great hole to trap the people in serious
pit so deep and those fallen never awaken very serious
so...
we recognize as criminals than serious.
May 27, 2020
May 27, 2020 at 2:11 AM UTC
When the birds of spring sang with joy
To hail the blowing breeze pampering the face rapidly with moisturizing coy
When rays of the shine stand very kind to make the life neither hot nor too cold
Life rushes through the mobility of less anxiety or creating abundant tumult
Shining novelty on juvenile tress’ robe bestow jubilee to those hurry to work
In confronting the bundle you expect to parole
Life is so lovely what are you feeling for?
- “ seems… GARLIC…?”
The most beautified Criollo … ladies of shadow…listen to spring and smooth song of returning swallows
- “ sounds GARLIC..?”
Sender of magic rockets to Apollo… ladies of shallow… smell of plant mingled with heavenly blossom of sharp blue, it is a time to define the final intentions supposed to follow…
- “ feels GARLIC…?”
Drowsy, numb, with mouths open, shoulders down like zombies out of tomb… who are you? mighty dancers with delicate willow with strong sense of itching on our marrow
- “…ladies of GARLIC…”
Nobody comes, nobody goes, life is so hollow, what it supposed to be full of energy …you You talk a lot…just go!
smell strange not from corpses but from walls, earth, and ceiling… what is it?
- “….life is …GARLIC…”
Apr 15, 2020
Apr 15, 2020 at 5:30 AM UTC
Singing the song of still never being
Deep deep in the ceremony of wind
Swirling and swirling more than a typhoon without any wing
Deep and deep under the dust green emerald hot
Roots in and petals swift frozen cuts
What drinks necessarily from the bottle of a lovers’ heart
Dirge dire nasty ecstasy belonging to no creature
Except whom filled with wine
White, white or crimson like a passionate loves
Talking to you my frozen blossom
Wide soft
Without hearing you without knowing me
Without any incident happening to shape our way
Bright.
Apr 11, 2020
Apr 11, 2020 at 10:13 AM UTC
When I share two or three days of the week to compose poetry I find myself on the
exam session when severe merciless teachers ask us to write about “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard!”
Elegies mostly are unprepared and never find time to turn to the appropriate types!
They ask me on and on...and I ask them in the consulting area that how can we turn my blossomy song to elegies unwritten about the parish of those people, long time ago had been lost exactly on the exam time?
How could you expect me to turn my naïve feeling to one of the catastrophic ones?
>
<
>
time is over
time is up
time is running
time flies
>
<
>
Teachers shout, “ HURRY UP” when will they shut up?
I usually haunt by the bundle of words and circled with tumults of ideas as shining and variable as stars that like the savage river rush out to make me drowned. Very rarely I could find a way to breathe out. Elegies swirling randomly again and again to pose the question about whom shall we very soon defined, Mum?
>...O darlings...<
…motionless corpse, wandering ghost, dead people around,
>.. not stars..<
>...O… no..<
Is there anybody nowadays to think about the “Country Churchyard” and elegies very appropriate to them at all, what a destiny! what a force! while a long time ago they were bestowed to the grand history of all mankind.
O…no…
Poor elegies remain unborn and sad in my thought…not forever…
they laugh…and laugh…I can hear them, time is over and I’m a failure.
<
<
<
The blank sheet is going to be filled by songs wearing the long red robe of emotional loves or lust…they are tired of black mourning cloth of demise!
they laugh
and
laugh and
laugh
since
>
<
I 'm a murderer…tapping with dirk ….or strangling with a heavy rope of my heart….bloodshed everywhere: drops from my fingers to the height. shout, scream and cry, they were innocent, don' t want to die. I can hear them.
>
<
They are killed not to stay further in a cemetery of churchyard but to be born with a new style, either failure or corrupt…
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 6:42 AM UTC
when I saw you for the first time you were a dove on the branches shuddering with the sudden breath of sprite as white as pure snowballs
and………………………………………………………………………I
.................................................................................................!
days after visiting you reminding me a nightingale on the same branches singing glamorously although comprehensible on some occasions and not very tangible on other times: hovering you upon the sky, upon the roof was enchanting somehow
and..............................................................................................................I
............................................................................................!
later on, a tornado encapsulated the flight of a swallow in habit of severe immigration from the land uneasy to far and far while seeing the branches empty and songs silent tortuous the sight
and..............................................................................................................I
..............................................................................................!
years past and considering those days make me to reproach myself that how wrong I was. only a butterfly sat on our written scriptures for a while never promise to stay a bit longer. Born by spring will be die in winter night,
and............................................................................................................I
..............................................................................................?
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 8:58 AM UTC
when the rivers green early in the morning of obscure season fountain up to weave the clouds blue, and the roses rouge give the arrayed passengers solemn hello, mild adores from Narcissus and lilacs make wild grass rhythmically flew,
when sun spatter gold ness to heart of people coming through
and humid on petals remnant from past night rain shrewd
to make the robust mountain shine under occasion to give the blinking eyes clue
I will let myself to think upon you.
considering our doings during years like ghost forlorn comes and go
while it is neither spring nor summer day that smooth breeze opening the door to bid the winter’s storm out…out…
memories long, long… breaks out by strong typhoon, so…
I would be persuaded to assess: my hard-hearted angle, on some occasions, maybe it is possible to forgive you!
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 6:29 AM UTC
Shall we stay for a while in the midnight on the bridge, the river beneath is dried?
Without you disturbing me further, annoying, or injuring my heart.
Shall we?
Shall I ask you don’t say even a word about being cruel or galling of love?
Neither do I expect the romantic situation with burning stars, or smooth blowing breeze to pamper cheeks inwards…nothing … I expect for nothing.
What I wait for is only staying for a while. Be patient and calm enough to look at my eyes, someone whose crime is only loving you and ask yourself …why?
Why nightmarish tortures appropriate to her?
why?
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 4:37 AM UTC
Fill in the blanks with those vocabularies never ever found in usual discussion, daily comes and goes, never existed even on imaginary world of movies or books.
Fill in the blanks with noise.
Tumult of hallucination whizzing the sound of ambiguity through the sound of the gait of a man galloping smoothly in the long yellow brick route surrounds with fences never expose the way of redemption.
Fill in the blanks with choice.
The last track of nightingale, maybe, dwells on the far branches of novel blossom tree of best spring with no worrisome regards countable, uncountable, passives, actives, adjectives or nouns.
Fill in the blanks with skylarks of no boast.
It is causative by its own, Imagery flying over the untrodden lands inspires the eyes overview the long hair singers hadn’t been observed before. Access is denied!
Fill in the blanks with liberty of boost.
Aurora …aurora…. Some body calls. Pretending to be wise whole life, how nonsense it was. Being lunatic is secret of joy.
Fill in the blanks with wandering ghosts!
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 7:28 AM UTC