i keep thinking about this poem in my head
i cannot remember a thing
even though i live in my head

bloodshot eyes are all i see
looking straight in the mirror, lost at sea
keep thinking i will see you again
knowing the answer is "never again"

i still don't know a thing
about this world
keep thinking everything i hear
are lies that are told,
that everyone is out to get me, like a tower of cards
left to stumble and fold.
that people only care for them selves, even though
they always told me
two people can make one's self.

if life is truly survival of the fittest
then my life is a jacket that could never really fit
i outgrew it before i was born
a shame, a shame
i am a shell of who i used to be, i am a lame on the street.
after you died, nothing can ever be the same.

the love we cherished
at fifteen, will stay with me till fifty.
god forbid, it is 2016, here i am thinking
i would never live past 2015.

i am gone, i am dead
whatever you hear from me is posthumous
being written from the troughs in Heaven's den
lost and forgotten, look around, see.
the rock of Sisyphus
weighs heavy on the walking posthumous
they are gone, they are dead, they push on.

i hear them say, rest in peace.
hope they will say the same,
when i find reprieve
at the bottom of the sea.

i cannot die.
not yet, at least.
not when i'm capable of so much more love,
when i have so much to give before i end up above.

you once told me,
that seven was your favorite number.
lucky number seven.
but what could be so lucky about death?
i read that before one dies,
seven minutes of brain activity remains
and in their head, a snapshot of their life replays.

all i can hope is to be
just in one second of that story
to be part of your entrance into heaven and glory
to be the final lullaby lulling you to sleep
to be in the last breath you exhaled deep

i remember
the day of your funeral.
being embraced
in your mother's arms,
and that if there was ever a time
to be
forgiven,
to stay
strong,
it was now.
that a look of comfort,
and not saying anything
is all i could do.
and that the way we held each other,
maybe no one could tell who was comforting who.

i remember,
shaking your father's hand
like i still had to give him
respect,
for coming up with you, for making one half of you
BEING HELD IN HIS ARMS THE WAY HE USED TO DO WITH YOU

no one knows
about the times i almost became a father
how close we were
to ******* it all up.
how your father would **** me if i made you a father
how if we went to "Maury,"
i would be the only one in history to jump up in celebration,
as he says,
"you are the father!"

i'm just
happy
i experienced everything with
you.

people tell me recently that i speak like their father
and after having shook the hand of one of the greatest fathers i ever met,
i know that i will be ready to be a father.
that with or without you, i will never forget you.

i'm just
sad.
i can't get on one knee and propose to you,
time how long it would take for you to say "I do."
i won't know if it'll take seven seconds or less,
just know i gave you my
best.

i'm just
i'm just really missing you.
the lessons you gave me at seventeen,
will last until i'm seventy.

for last, i hope
i hope
that my last seven minutes of life,
will be spent listening to the sound of your voice,
bleeding slow in me as a gentle knife.

My mother, Sylvia Plath,
These days, I might laugh,
Electric oven, you know,
I was too young to know,
One way to go--
It was an electric stove!
I was too young to know,
I used to live in dread,
I learnt what blackmail meant,
She got cremated, you know,
I was too young to know,
These days, I might laugh,
My mother, Sylvia Plath.

When did you tell me that the sunrise was unwelcome, that the hallways gave you such anxiety and that I should just as well stay in?

I told you once that you looked young, yet sixty years had passed since your death, and you, Sylvia, were beautiful...

Said the vivid tulips ate your oxygen.

Poets have great sympathy for you in the way we gasp in sorrow and strive for beauty.

I know exactly why I love you.

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/

You always mention Sylvia Plath.
I think you want to be like her,
But your poetry’s just not up to scratch.

You idealise her suicide

Her torment becomes your own.
Relish in the thought
That in death you will achieve some kind of success.
Yet in death you will still be alone.

i met a young girl
the other day,
and she wanted to
know if i cared to
read her book.

i was delighted at her
offer,
especially from a girl
so young as herself,

i agreed to take
her novel, slipping
it into my sturdy hand
bending the whole page backwards,
allowing it
to kiss the cover,
holding it up to the sun as
if i were to recite it
to the curious sky.

but
the little girl
could do nothing,
but stare and
ask of me
that i not bend
the pages
of sylvia plath,

and i knew then
and there,
that she was doomed
to a life of math.

As Plath once said, "dying is an art"
and just like her it is something I'm good at by heart.
You see, I've died not once or twice but fifteen times,
always by my own hand; sometimes by rope and sometimes
by pills stocked up to the max - always dying
and also always, to my own misfortune, surviving.