Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
kayzamo Jun 8
---TRIGGER WARNING: themes 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!
Theplishk Apr 12
I reset the clock and sent you away
at the correct hour you will cry your arrival
to take your place among the elements

We moan and play and push you forward. The future.
We have visions of you, a being already
keeping us safe.  We cover the walls with your image in paint.

I will be your mother
when I see in the mirror the future
that I mean to give you

At night, I think I hear your breath
the echoes of our own. I wake to listen:
You move beyond my ear

I cry, and wrap the blankets tighter around
my naked body shivering
I press my mouth against my lover’s back. The pillow we share

lulls me back into sleep. And I hear you now
faint whispered sighs;
that fade away in the morning.
poems from my twenties
Kitten Yvad Feb 20
Worship this world of watercolor mood
in glass pagodas hung with veils of green
where diamonds jangle hymns within the blood
and sap ascends the steeple of the vein.

A saintly sparrow jargons madrigals
to waken dreamers in the milky dawn,
while tulips bow like a college of cardinals
before that papal paragon, the sun.

Christened in a spindrift of snowdrop stars,
where on pink-fluted feet the pigeons pass
and jonquils sprout like solomon's metaphors,
my love and I go garlanded with grass.

Again we are deluded and infer
that somehow we are younger than we were.
one of my very favorite scenic poems. I remember being 16 and lost and this taking my very breath away.
fray narte Jul 2020
There are nights when I run out of flesh,
of skin and bones
to melt,
to offer,
to fill this glaring pit,
now just a rusting can of worms
There are nights when my soul wraps itself
in silken ribbons and velvet gowns
slipping slowly off this skin:
a striptease for death;
maybe more.

There are nights when my soul
stills in a corner
and readies itself for Plath to collect.

Get it all out now —
the linen is too short,
the myrrh, too little
for the allusions and all these twisted laments.

This wake is good for just one tragedy.

Get it all out —
the obvious references,
the tributes to another poet,
who killed herself —

get it all out, little girl.

There is no room for two in a coffin
in a world where
Lady Lazarus dies and stays dead.
fray narte Jul 2020
i wanna dive head first
into a map of the night skies
trapped inside our four-walled room;
maybe this is where black holes go to die
and they can all stare back at me —
swallowing a chaos of sobs
and a chaos of all your favorite songs;
regardless, i’ll dive into the night skies,
or what it used to be
and name these stars – the ones that remain anyway,
after you.
after me.
after us;
at least they take a long time to die –
long enough for flowers to droop and fall apart
on weeds and lonely epitaphs.

and dear, i hope heaven is holding you closer than i could ever had;
tell me, did you, like sylvia
write suicide notes and call them poetry?

and god do i hope that heaven is holding you so close,
you forget all of the world’s sadness
you once took for your own.

out here, the calendula falls and
my eyes mourn over petal-covered graves
poems cannot hope to beautify.
and i still wish this is something i can wake up from
Agatha Prideaux Apr 2020
Within the promise land of calm and sound
Pearls found harbor on coarse, finite-like sand
Now whitened by the faces of the drowned
****** by the berserk billows as they stand

Willows frown upon the unjust waters
Whose surface's frozen in a dreamlike blur
Cradling ghostly hollows like coy daughters
In tender whispers as always, they were

And the world bowed down its head in silence
As Lilith raised the rose of thorns in hand
"My children hearsed in tombs of violence;
my children to be salvaged!" she demand

But nevermind the promised neverland
—No one ripens from their so-called homeland
Day 8 of #NaPoWriMo 2020. Followed the site's prompt this time—borrowing a line from the Twitter bots. "Whitened by the faces of the drowned" is from @sylviaplathbot on Twitter, a line from her poem "Finisterre".
monique ezeh Feb 2020
If a ship is replaced piece by piece, part by part,
It will eventually become an entirely new ship.
Not a shred of the old one will remain,
Except in memory.

I have tried to die a thousand times.
I think I’ve killed a piece of myself in each attempt.
In theory, if I **** and rebuild myself piece by piece, part by part
Eventually the “me” that is left will be entirely new.

Sylvia Plath once said, “Dying is an art”;
I wonder if I’m finally an artist.
Looting Autumn comes to pad his lustrum
w/ nacarat flags of havoc stricken.
Summer her frigid singe to his auburn
heart submits, a spinster lately slickened
by April showers cold on the rebound.
It's the last chance saloon of the seasons
for me really: in a relative stound,
thieved reels will superabound. No leaves on
electrum bark, shredded komorebi,
shall shivelight Puck Id's way to March. As if
honking peonies post-peotomy,
that last stark solis occasus won't live.
Penultimate sunset's 1 pleasuring
brumal babyblues that'll be blind by spring.

***Schwa­rze flocken
snowdrift in macular
massacre this winter, my vitreous
humour's all kohl. In Miltonic crosshair,
a vision of Hell, & that vision is
blind as a doorpost. Longer days to come
won't de-ice the subfusc verglas windscreens
to my soul. No so-so solatium
of another solis ortus shall beam
lasik Prozac to my optimism
cortex by time the sap rises anew.
Anarchy Optrex blackguards the prism,
apes archaeopteryx's worm's eyeview.
Flyleaf sun, blotted source of all inklings.
Next Summer's over; I'll be blind by spring.
Next page