The source of my sorrow
Has been resurrected
Along with the memories I had buried.
Everything before you was buried,
But the burn of whiskey
Has robbed every grave I created;
Truths brought back by the
Numbness of my lips and
Willingness of my neighbors ears.

When I started writing, It was because I was in pain.
I tried to be happier with my words but to no avail.
The few poems I had spat out about love or *** were forced,
Driven by guilt because I knew that I was not in a safe place.
I knew I had to save myself.

And then I broke free.

This dry spell I've been in is caused by a lack of pain,
By a better place that I didn't think existed.
The future became clearer and my present became brighter.
I could recognize the faces in my dreams
And I lost the edgy, creative side of my mind.

I learned what a lovely kiss felt like, metaphorically.

I'd been kissed. I'd been hit. I'd been in bed with man and woman.
I'd been in love. I thought I'd been in love.
I'd never been kissed by another soul. Another body, yes.
But your kiss went deep. I felt it in my veins.
I felt it in the split ends of my hair. I felt it in the stars above my head.

I'd been touched by an angel. I swear I was.

Gradually, I've been brought into the world
As a new soul without torment. The shadows remain,
But the lights in my attic rarely turn off.
I can see the pages that I'd stashed away with poems and stories
Scrawled across the parchment. I wrote because I was in pain.

I don't write because of you.

How do you remember me?
Am I the girl that cried on your shoulder?
Or the child that screamed at you because
You'd insulted me?

Do you think I am aware of what I've done?

I know I've made mistakes in my years.
Do you think I'm that ignorant?

I wonder because you're one of them.

Here it goes again.
Another poem to describe how useless I am.
How tattered my soul is.
How my brain resembles my hands,
callused, numb, and broken dry skin.
I'm a terrible person.
Self indulgent and full of sin.

And here it goes again.
In the mirror I see nothing.
A big steaming pile of nothing.
Full of wasted dreams, 'what ifs' and 'one days.'
The **** that I write never comes out right.
The **** that I dream is just that:
a big steaming pile of nothing.

Here it goes again.
As if I am something.
But I can't get past how useless I am.
A speck in this cosmic dust cloud.
And here I go again, thinking I am a tornado.
How I will crush your dream home
and leave behind a big steaming pile of debris.

Here I go again,
thinking I am nothing.
When really, I am something.
I am a speck in this cosmic cloud,
without me that tornado wouldn't be.

A white noise in your throat

The palpitations drop and boil
Your stomach inside itself.

The motors and gears in your limbs
Rust and stick like someone spat
Their chewed gum into them.

Tears freeze in their place and
The burn sets in.

Save us.

You kissed the tears from my cheeks
Your own falling in time with mine;
Our hearts pulling, heavy and weeping.

I told you my story.
The storm and the eye in the center.

On this day in 1963, Sylvia Plath, a beautiful woman and well known poet, committed suicide in her apartment. A rare recording of her reading her poem The Disquieting Muses was released.
https://www.brainpickings.org/2014/10/27/sylvia-plath-reads-the-disquieting-muses-bbc/