I've been tearing around in my ******* nightgown
24/7 Sylvia Plath
Writing in blood on the walls
'Cause the ink in my pen don't work in my notepad
Don't ask if I'm happy, you know that I'm not
But at best, I can say I'm not sad
'Cause hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have
hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have...

Sometimes,
I imagine I'm some
mourning starlet
who sings Lana Del Rey
at the club
every Saturday night.

A honeyed halo of stage light
tangles itself about
the curled labyrinth
of my hair,
sparkles gold against
my tearing irises.

My mouth parts
and the war cries begin.

In the moments that
the melody offers
my voice repose,
I pound shots to the beat
of the drummer's ramblings.

The crowd applauds
my tipsiness,
their hoots of praise
shaking at the depths
of my eardrums
like an intoxicated tambourine.

My neuroticism
fascinates these people,
I think.

Not in an
exploitive,
let's-glamourize-depression
kind of way,
but in an
it is a truth universally acknowledged
kind of way--in a
"*******, cuz I've been there too"
kind of way.

See,
within my little,
concocted fantasy
of stage light
and music
and *****,
the people don't judge me
the way they do
on the outside.

Here,
I am not
melodramatic or
overly sensitive or
disposable.

Here,
my war cries sound
a little less
like death and
a little more
like poetry.

Here,
they love me
in spite of the sadness.

Here,
we share a song--
here,
they sing with me.

You used to be a lamp to nightly eyes,
       You are a star right now,
You used to be a rose so fine and nice,
        Where is that flower-brow?
You have become a woman, proud and pretty,
        Just like a crownless queen,
I cannot blame your growth and change and ties,
        You never had a vow.

You think the night

is beautiful,

with her endless

cascade of stars and

the way she wears the clouds

so seductively--

billowing wisps of froth

that adhere to her frame

like a silk negligee,

their mere existence

dependent solely upon

the curves of her body.



She's the girl next door;

the one who keeps you up at night,

the woman you want to undress.



You admire her

for her quiet,

for her stillness.



You worship her,

for she is the keeper

of both dreams and wishes



But I am afraid

you have mistaken her mournings

for loveliness.



What you thought were stars

are really tears,

molten pearls of silver

whose painful scorches

have blemished the

velveteen shadows

of the night.



And the clouds are not truly clouds

but ringlets of cigarette smoke

that arise from her

chapped, wine-stained lips,

imposing onto the air a heavy smog that

sputters throughout the blackness.



Sometimes,

she will sing,

her symphonies chaperoned by

the melancholy of Ursa Minor.



"I heard that you like 

the bad girls, honey. 

Is that true?"



The vibrato of her voice

ricochets off the

planes of the universe.

"A fine performance!"

they cheer.

(for someone who is

so unfathomably sad).



The Gods

say she is a warped record,

a label that is dictated,

not by her pitch,

but by her broken heart.



And you will listen

to her anyway;

for she will put you

to sleep with her lullabies

whose sorrow you have

failed to acknowledge--

a sorrow you have mistaken

for beauty.



But, then, perhaps you had known

of her sorrow all along.



Perhaps that was what

had captivated

you in the first place.



After all,

dark minds think alike.

I don't want to continue.
I feel I lack the strength
For many reasons that weigh
Heavy on my chest.

Constricting my breathing of this life.

I'm happiest alone in my blue room
When the new moon
Brings hymns from my blue muse

Curled up in my blue egg
Bought some new Keds
Now I'm spinning blue webs

You didn't mean to do this
But you really blue this
Turning everything so blueish

We may just be two fish
But I don't know who this
Swimming soul is who could do this

I dug up some blue blooms
To fill my blue bath with fumes
While my bottle consumes
these blue veins like reigns how the hurricaine looms

I don't want to play with you boy
This blue pen is my favorite toy
I'm a kind kitten who doesn't **** coy

You can kick me til I'm sick and then make me lick the wounds
And from far away I'll meow to you blue blue tunes

Upon the waves there's being surfed,
And at cafes delights are served,
While the orange sun shares a ray,
At the end of the glowing day.

A summertime sadness and glee,
Is played alongside of the sea,
Who is rosy, pink as the sky,
As the beautiful waves pass by.