Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
m lang Apr 24
i feel like sylvia plath,
or james dean when he said
“live fast, die young, and
leave behind a beautiful corpse.”
except he didn’t say that.
but sylvia plath was volatile
to her mind
and a tortured soul.
the carbon monoxide
filled her soul,
just as the misery fills mine.
the burning desire to exit,
to end it.
the desire to burn the
fires inside my mind.
the poetic way of james dean,
and sylvia plath
lives in my veins
and feels like a raging fire
that cannot be tamed.
Julius Mwanja Jr May 2020
Once upon a weedy lawn
At the Mwanjas family Home
There left mom, left before we could even say good bye
Thinking of it as a lie, it was so unfortunate that mom had to die

Blow upon this cloud of seed,
You should wish for what you really need."

I wished for one but sadly blew
As I was lost and left with no clue
My world ripped part unfixed without a touch of glue

Lost the only mother I ever knew
And saw the sky as if it was never blue
Like they was nothing else to do

And unsure of where to go
I found a bridge, and crossed it slow
As I found myself in momma's heart.
For her love was still part

We had lost a mother that could never be replaced
In her lightness of her motherly tone
Was her love for showing her motherly kindness?

Just one moment changed it all
When I saw moms friend softly call
As she whispered in my elder sisters ears
Your mom just died, I’m sorry dear

As the joy drained out like tides at sea.
Lost direction like I couldn’t see
Only left with pain and grief
I felt no relief and unwelcome like a thief.

There comes a time in this place
Were you try to do your best
You try too hard
But easy left without guard

I mean that only love is the way
As I changed from a boy to a man up to this day
Not love for a girl, a career or a degree I must say
But her love that transforms that we lost on  that day

Breathtaking, feeling like my heart could break
And not really sure of how much more I would take
I found myself living a life that was fake

Cause her heart was bright as the sun
As I remember every we had done
I remembered her dresses, beautifully white
I remember her as if it was last night

Like a knife tearing straight through my chest
I knew that I won’t ever seen her face, because mom was put to rest
Before I was her very own
Now mom is never at home

Very mush missed for her things
Down on her knees,
By the side of her bed she found her peace
Praying for us, like she knew she would live
Living us a world of grief

She prayed for our unity, she prayed we find love,
She prayed for our blessing she prayed for our Dad above all.
She prayed we find strength, she prayed for her home
She put our needs first before her very own

And I knew for the first time her pain and her care.
And I noticed also an angel-like glow,
As she reached out her hand, and said, "Now you knew."

But I'll never forget something I lost that day.

I lost a wonderful mother
So gentle yet so strong
The many ways she showed her love and care
And the way she made me feel like I belong

A mother who was patient when I was foolish
You were a mother when I was childish
You give me guidance when I asked
You were the master to my every task

I lost the only dependable source of comfort
I’m were I’ m today because of your effort  
The cushion when I fall
The only reason I knew how to stand tall
The only support I ever called
A mother I ever known

And this something I was told

Never discount the love of a mother from her son nor her daughter,
Never trade in that bond for the sake of a lover.
That there is power in a mothers loving prayers
And there is a God who hears and who cares.
I learned about faith, and unconditional love.
That my mother soul was sent up above
And I learned that from a little seed
Can come most everything we need

But some of us didn’t grow up with every in need
Because we lack a mother in need
So I had to push boundaries’ in order to create opportunities
Have to strive in order to succeed
We love you mom and very mush missed
This is your son KULI; remember you left me when I was a kid
This one is for you mom, may soul rest in peace
Not all people glow up wth everything they need
kayzamo Jun 2021
---TRIGGER WARNING: themes and references related to self harm---

I swear to god,
I'm the 13th reincarnation of Sylvia Plath,
Only I'm bad at poetry.
I write, I hide in my bedroom with the light off,
And I grow a little crazier everyday.
One moment I'm singing a gentle song,
Nurturing the sweet daisies sprouted in my carpet.
A minute later I'm slicing open my forearms,
Cackling and painting something on the walls in blood.
Call 911 and shove the phone down my throat,
It feels good to gargle disappointment.

My writing has evolved over the years:
From naive, soft, and shallow murmurs,
To a steady, dull hum,
Then a defiant yell of a freedom.
However, it's time to enter another stage.
One of scratching, beating to the rhythm of a delusional dance.
It's tainted at the corners like an old, ruined photograph,
With a faint sour smell.
The final stage of my writing has come -
A frantic, hallowed, and deranged wail.
How long until the words I scrawl
Become nonsense?

So stay away,
Don't come through the crack in the bell jar.
Please, I'm trying to suffocate myself,
All in the name of art.
Let me stay in this vaccum of madness,
Pushing and pulling at my mind.
I'm telling you, it's going to hurt if you get too close.
My turbulent muse is ready with a match,
And I don't have the strength to stop her from burning you.

Let me revel in my obsession for a little longer.
My selfishness, my self-indulgence, my depravity,
Or whatever the hell you want to call it.
I know I'm a fool for wearing Plath's wedding band,
And swallowing her barbiturates.
I can't help but romanticize her legacy,
Writing her initials on Wernicke's and Broca's foreheads.
I don't care if I'm a copycat.
Critiques welcomed as always! Thanks!
Paul Idiaghe Dec 2020
Done, ends stitched in a seam—set
to be worn over yourself.
A stain so bright, you sparkle.
Too far forward to flip. The sipper,
the straw, the soda. Bleeding ink
every blink, but still brimming.
Ripped apart like a rainbow.
A love letter to life still
in the works.

So dead you’re divine.
Only visible in the love-light.
Weird as a plant that bites
the bully, as a phlox
sprouting through sand.
Wingless like wind, fin-less
like a fluid. Lost but
listening to your own heart.
after Sylvia Plath
I am Sylvia Plath and decide to commit a suicide
Before night, before midnight, before any incident spoils my intention that goes totally upward, or any single communication proves it is life: generally  moves on haphazard, neither do I want be introduced as a horrible criminal never been merciful to grandiose thought in keeping self magnified or words very elegance. Away… don’t look at me in this way since reality is so horrified, since I’m a goddess with only one eye  lying beside the lake and playing with water flowing on the line of the green jungle what we call it life to shot the fingers on heavenly drops and sing the song of eternity  to confess: I’m not as honest as other gods attached to the mirror of the wall with four eyes to reflect the  realities of  people of come and go, creating   flickering and shaking atmosphere over my sights that makes me semi- blind when  three other eyes remaining behind the mirror and  one eye -goddess is not trustworthy enough in exposing the  murmurings  of  the woman reposing on river side in pledge of tuning the song of solitude with silent outcry:
La  La  La                  La La La                       La  La La     *

                                                             My Love:
How creative you are, not cruel at all, just very creative in exploring the long distance between doves of love and very cunning in employing people to excavate a chasm of agony, torturer and blood between you and I… I’ me Sylvia Plath and decide to commit a suicide, before maroon crimson night, before children know what their mother really decide, before horrible fish rises abruptly inward to devour my heart or demolish all my beauties of ladylike in shadow of  your last statement warned me  “ for what  you are still in dark?”
Dark! What a brilliant statement in the first and last and lost time, on duration of nights insomnia or feeling nausea when autumnal  rain attacked the yellow red leaves to fall to forecast that  unity is so far. When nights’ owl very kindly repeats your heart  dark…dark…when the mirror broken, eyes  spatter on all over the world, god and goddess remain eye less, completely blind, and our last reminder…your last medal on my heart still dark.
I am Sylvia Plath and decide to commit a suicide.
On the basis of Sylvia Plath's life and her poem " Mirror".
Carlo C Gomez May 2020
Sylvia didn't waste time

She kept time

In a bell jar

On her nightstand

Next to the blissfully whirling blackness of eternal oblivion

All in the hopes it might one day grow wings

And lift her beyond the owl's talons clenching her heart
for Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)
Kvothe Dec 2016
This bleak existence
of cisterns,
it peeks it's leaky head
above the gutters.
Shuttered **** tight.

Death is the meaning of life.

Sylvia knew it best,
resting under home,
bone heavy
and sleepless.
That jar of hers;
thirsts on monochrome
needless, overblown nerves.
Smash it!
Crush it!
Whack it!
Mush it!
Classic glassy mess.
Break it!
Fix it.
Tape it.
Place it.
Back now on your head.
Next page