She was like the wind, everywhere at once and suddenly not there at all,
She was madness, she was irrational, she was blinded by love,
She was passion in itself, her soul always one step ahead of her body,
She was the girl who always loved too much, always gave too much and always hurt too much,
She conjured up lightning with her words,
She spilled oceans onto pages and then drowned in the storm,
She was the dreamer who never really woke up,
Love was always just out of reach, laughter was always a step ahead of her,
She was madness, she was lightning and she was love,
"I must get my soul back from you", she said, "I'm killing my flesh without it".
She still lingers on, in between the pages of the Bell Jar, hiding in poetry that touches your soul,
She still lingers on, waiting for the day he returns her soul back to her so she can laugh in colors again.

What the hell
When I have heaven in my arms?

I see Blake, I see Plath
I see the bike next to the block

Am I good?at your puns?
Spotting these metaphors and sensing
your lust
The Devil  himself between these mellowing thighs
Oh, He looked a lot like you Sean.

Undress not your self
But your gown
For me once
Disarm these plausibilities
I know where you're from

what a life it is
to live in love
with an ideal self.
to be in love with one
who doesn't exist,
not even in fiction,
only in the realm of your mind.
what a life it is
to look in the mirror
and feel your soul shatter
but when you look away,
you can pretend you are
the version of you that you see in your head.
I'm not the only one. I know it.
Biographers say that Sylvia Plath was in love with her dream self, encompassed in a strange egotistical fantasy.
I live in that same fantasy.
How do I make fantasy me
the real me?

If “dying is an art,” you do not do it well.  I do not
have words, do not have thoughts; there is nothing inside
of me anymore.  I am vacant, hollow, and if this is what
time travel feels like I do not want any part of it.  Racing
past the stars, past the planets, past Andromeda's spiraling, galactic force,
I am light-years ahead and then light-years behind—I am
                two years                    too late.                  

You cannot know, you will not know, how
Auriga is waiting in the sky to whisk you
                                                                 away,                away,                            away.

Th­e bubbling of your oxygen sounds like the water fountains
you used to pass as a child, but there are no pennies at the bottom
of this.  And I wonder, with your eyes closed, if you feel like you
are swimming.  Barely treading water, fighting to keep your head above,
choking on salt and brine as you try to kick your feet, try to
swim to Lake Michigan’s shoreline.  I want
Poseidon to spit you out of sea like a cork, want
Neptune to come alive through the mosaics of your bathroom and
lead you away from the great, black, wave of stars that is
breaking and crashing and barely brushing your bare feet.

Some fish were meant to drown.  You are
not one of them.  Pisces is meant to swim                   forever.

This time machine has dropped me back into my nightmare again,
but it is not only mine, it’s yours.  I am trying to read
the constellations, trying to map the planets, trying to figure out
the moon cycles, but I fear that this is a language I had learned once
and tried to forget—we are now digging each others graves.  
The nurse in blue, the doctor in white, the sun in gold, and you,
red as dead and clotted blood, have merged into a new dialect
that does not mirror what I know the way the
Gemini twins mimic one another in the cosmos. (I think
                                 I have lost my ability to speak with angels
and this terrifies me.)

Is God whispering the secrets of the world into your ear yet?  Is Jesus
showing you how to be holy?  Are you tearing the bread for communion
and feeding it to the birds?  Are you taking shots from His heavenly blood,
getting drunk off the possibility of closing your eyes, leaning back, and
watching Perseus fight your battles for you?  
                                                        Do you want to be a constellation, too?

I am eighty miles away from you, but it feels more like
eighty light-years.  I am watching you through someone else’s eyes and
choking myself with my own hands as I try to show you
what you mean to me.  My hands are cracked and bleeding from
pounding them against the wall you constructed around yourself, but you
don’t have control over that wall anymore, do you?

You are too young to ride Pegasus in the night sky, too young to
build your own wings, too young to fall and drown like Icarus.  You
know how to swim.  You are learning how to fly.  There is no
reason for you to shake God’s hand yet.  Put the halo down—
                                                           ­                                                you are not ready.

A week and a half, a year before ship sails
Azalea path was already paved
Soon I found someone in the same state of mind as me
All insane of astrology, all insane of metaphors

There's this delirium episode going inside of me that made me
slash what carried me far to see if I could survive worse
even tried the continuum oblivion
till I dare my hands to drive me in to an atom collision

There are times when it wasn't all about wars
I spent it combusting to few places
When and where snow is an empire usurped by crippled leaves in the fall.
Fall, fall, fall
It was him who falls and leaves.

One night, or one day, I don't quite care
but that is when I got away
I ran with flames not yet ignited
I barricade the commotion out with flimsy threads, all I can think
Didn't even thought threads spread flames (if it's ignited)
(Well now it's ignited)
And someone caught up in it

I can still hear him even now
That's the end of my life
The rest is posthumous
talking me up

Eyeful of tears
Mindful of fears
Are the only arrears
She left

That depressed soul
Created a big hole
By leaving her role
In poetry

That decomposed smile
Melted me for a while
I traveled many a mile
For her

"the world will end not with a bang, but with a whimper."

i say,
the world,
will end in war --
when man's greed becomes flames under his touch,
and he can no longer keep it in the palm of his hand.
for human hands were never meant to hold the weight of disasters,
and neither were they made to hold a gun or a blade.

i say,
the world,
will end in battle --
when land turns against land,
brother against brother,
for ideas would run thicker than blood,
though nothing could rival blood's flowing abundance.

i say,
the world,
will end in victory.
when the only salvation is a purge, though the hammer will not fall under the touch of man, for he is too self-preserving;
but under the pull of the earth.

when she takes matters into her two palms, polarized and unpretty.
she will rip herself into pieces,
she will tear herself from the core,
she will burn in her own flames.

but she,
she will emerge victorious over her own children.
she will cleanse herself, she will be made pure again.
she will rise from the red waters of her own shredded veins,
and she will eat men like air.

she will be reborn.
she will win.