Idek if your friends are really your friends or your benefits bank

I've recently become interested in the life of Sylvia Plath. One person told me a poem of mine reminded him of Sylvia Plath's. When I looked her up I learned of her and several other poets ending their lives in the most miserable manner. In fact, I found a list of 100 plus great poets and writers who did it. Even Ernest Hemingway shot himself with his beloved shotgun, to my surprise. A considerable number of them were manic-depressives, sad to say.

Plath's main style of poetry is confessional poetry, some sort of subtype of lyric poetry, I guess. In fact, her and Anne Sexton (who also killed herself together with John Berryman) popularized the style. This is a far-fetched idea but I think their poetry is part of what made them commit suicide. Confessional poetry focuses on the poet's psyche, individuality and even their very own demons. They sure had some dark issues but couple that with writing that leaves anyone bare, open and vulnerable to personal pain and depression could very well drive some people to death. I just realized while reading their stories and even their accomplishments how writing could get very dark. It's such a risky career if not wedged in the right direction. I always thought it would all be rainbows and fields of daisies. But then it goes deeper than that.

And that concludes my little blog entry and research haha. To be honest, confessional poetry is my favorite and most of my poems are of that style. I believe it's so pure and raw but is also the most tasking to write.

I can actually make decent metaphors if I really want to hahaha. Here's to 1 am compositions xxxx

Lost my energy to write despite making this at 3 am in the morning.

And as usual my inspiration comes at very unusual times

Took me a lot of time to finish this and I am not even happy with how it turned out. So much for a third (or fourth) draft.

"I realized that the slump I'm feeling right now has to do with all the sick things the world has shown me. "

Hastened to its stop. I just wanted to get this poem over with but I'm too tired to recheck or redraft. This is bad and that is not an understatement. Getting seriously sloppy with writing. The house is always too noisy, the weather too warm, my head just could not settle the thoughts—I could find a million other reasons why I could not just get down to it. But the noise, my siblings being rowdy every single day is making me upset. Solitude is really the soul of writing. It takes every single distraction and you immerse in your ideas whether you like it or not. (Pls pls I need some peace and quiet. Been so tempted to go to that plateau near the cemetery where it's all calm and the sun looks astonishing when it sets.)

My all too familiar episodes of utter confusion and emotional instability are happening quite frequently, quite recently.

First of many poems! Like Henri Rousseau I do this out of sheer love of the art no matter my inexperience. Tonight is a night of pain and hence the poem. I don't know how poems are usually laid out, to hell with structure and rules.  If you can write it, then write it haha

This is completely ridiculous. I am perpetually tired that I can't even stand up, my body hurts in even more ridiculous places and my feet swell like a scorch from hell. All I can say in my head is **** how could someone be this dead inside and out while still able to stare right up the ceiling with much contempt

The curse of loving and hating what you do

i really can't finish what i start

Everything is making me so unhappy lately. I cant breathe with how I am here doing nothing important. i'm so tired of school I wanna leave this place and make something of my own even of I have to crawl on filth.

It's true I am afraid of growing up. I wish I'd jump in my rabbit hole as well