Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
In the soft embrace of snow, our love once bloomed,
Yet now, as it melts away, I ponder our love's assumed doom.
Today I've just laid
In my bed the entire day
Feeling absolutely numb
And that's what scares
Me the most...

I don't wanna go down
That road again
Every word feels off... everything feels off. But I kinda needed to write it anyway.
When I was small
I wrote a song.
It was as wild
As it was long.

I did not know
How to write words
And so I sang
With the morning birds.

Now I am grown,
I am depressed.
I write long things
Just to impress.

I do not sing,
I only sigh.
When I was small
I was alive.
 Oct 30 Chiara
Sylvia Plath
Better that every fiber crack
and fury make head,
blood drenching vivid
couch, carpet, floor
and the snake-figured almanac
vouching you are
a million green counties from here,

than to sit mute, twitching so
under prickling stars,
with stare, with curse
blackening the time
goodbyes were said, trains let go,
and I, great magnanimous fool, thus wrenched from
my one kingdom.

— The End —