There is no cure for my self. I will sit up nights And read poetry aloud And cry harsh tears as my words fall away into the darkness. It is my nature. A voice of sorrow lives in me And it speaks, always. It murmurs beneath everything like a brook. It sweetens my days And swallows my nights. It is not without its merits But it is Painful. I am a sad person Always have been. I ache, and always will. Love soothes and frightens me But beneath it grief runs steady The only thing That is always there Heedless of any other turmoil. It presses into me- A small trickle, less than rainwater- But it has carved me deep over years Deep, deep, It has cut caves into me. It is the heart of me, the softness of the stone It is my weakness and the source of my life And I have hated it for as long as I have known it was there But it Doesn’t care: It only knows how to continue Not how to feel. It doesn’t stop for love Or for anger Or for joy. It gouges a path through all of them, A deep, steady drumbeat A persistent crawl And I am witness to its slow erosion of me. I watch with apprehension An unwilling subject A reluctant vessel- For I know that as gentle as it seems It has stripped away all this so far And will go on Until nothing remains.
Title is a reference to the poem Elm by Sylvia Plath.