#sylvia
8th grade I read you—
suicidal Plath—
in front of my class.
"Edge" was the poem.
"Lady Lazarus" would've fit you better.
Funny, how when you unraveled,
blonde hair, hazel-eye, stripes on your thighs,
I heard the same cry and turned away, because
I hated the color red.
Clinical depression,
what a joke.
Pills, razors, approaching finale.
And I, merciless beast, ignorer of tears
covered my eyes.
Ignorance is ****
it's real warm,
and hey,
You gave me a bracelet last year
(I've given you nothing.)
Don't die on me now, okay?
Jul 26, 2025
Jul 26, 2025 at 12:37 PM UTC
They say I am like her,
and her,
but that is
blasphemous,
backhanded as
my sorrow must
bleed through.
Cannot make it
pretty,
there is no way
to make it
tender.
Cannot wish it into
a petal, a leaf,
there is no way
to warm the
sun.
They say I am like her,
but she is in
the dirt buried by
her own
hands-
and her hands
too!
She cried straight
into the
crypt.
Diagnosed with
the
disease of
death.
Do they also say
they hope
I end
like her,
or her,
too?
Sep 21, 2024
Sep 21, 2024 at 1:44 PM UTC
Perhaps the best of me is behind beyond
that point of irreversibility a beacon
of inevitability and it serves as such
I am no longer shiny or shocking or new
a brown paper bag crumpled and creased
milk that sours and curdles a homesick orphan
a lamb on its back and I will always be a child
I will always be a child I will always be a child
Love contorts me I curve and twist
and grow larger and wider
I am a flesh ball a blush balloon
punctured by a mere prick I am sensitive
tuned too tight like my Grandmother’s piano
but it was the first I ever played so no other sounds right
and I tell my first love the same thing
I am entropy the blaze of a sun a deity of delusion
a fickle fig (pick, peel, devour)
I am a tear in your jeans a loose thread a love-sick sack
a daughter (and some days, a mother)
I am tin teeth a blade in your belly a hive in your head
a feeble fawn (a black bull)
I am an amalgamation of deficiency and divinity
coarse and common as coal I am the sun the nether
the shade under the rock I am nothing nothing at all
May 10, 2024
May 10, 2024 at 7:18 PM UTC
~
*She stands on the roof of the world, a ship in a bottle. She likes to wave at passing boats, inviting 120 volts to raise their sails.
Words unbosomed -- her attempt of blotting out the sun and those bloodletting habits.
Her eyelids say, "Only the disquieting muses have time for me." So she writes like an umbrella, shading reality; remembering pluck and luck stories about bumblebees, lovingly wrapped in Tiffany-blue ribbon and paper.
Father used to solve her every contemplation. Now indecisiveness in what she asks. Now indecisiveness in arbitrary tasks.
And she and her negative capability are the last two awake at a slumber party, giving commonplace words the allure of secrecy.
You see, she is only harmless when she sleeps.*
~
Dec 9, 2023
Dec 9, 2023 at 7:49 PM UTC
These days I’ve been looking to the past, to all the women before me. The revolutionaries whose words helped shape the way I see the world; the way I see nature; the way I see simple, ordinary pleasures of life become extraordinary.
These days I let my pen flow freely across the page. I look to all the women before me for guidance because I find myself afraid to speak my own truth. They teach me with words how to live presently, never looking back because there’s no room for mistakes to reside here.
These days we’re on a first name basis. With wide-eyed clarity, all the women before me allow a short glimpse of them as they once were: bright young things full of hope with a cigarette loosely balanced between faded red lips and hands that move deftly over a typewriter. The room is filled with cigarette smoke and incense. I can almost smell it now but the vision is gone with the wind.
These days I seek out: Zelda; Sylvia; Anne; Emily; Joan; Virginia. To all the women before me, I have found you. They’re no longer a black and white still photograph or a short film reel. In those moments, they stay forever young etched in time from decades ago.
These days I welcome you all in my waking dreams. To all the women before me, you are not lingering ghosts being passed by unseen. You are not remembered for how you left this earth but for how, after all this time, you still remain unchanging.
Oct 24, 2023
Oct 24, 2023 at 10:50 AM UTC
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.
Apr 24, 2022
Apr 24, 2022 at 10:45 AM UTC
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
May 7, 2020
May 7, 2020 at 5:31 AM UTC
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.
Found.
Dec 10, 2020
Dec 10, 2020 at 3:44 PM UTC
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.
Jun 14, 2020
Jun 14, 2020 at 4:02 AM UTC
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
May 2, 2020
May 2, 2020 at 2:20 PM UTC
This bleak existence
reeks
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;
irksome,
thirsts on monochrome
bleakness;
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.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 5:37 PM UTC
how wonderful is the essence of childhood innocence and naivety?
children who question even the simplest daily tasks you complete so many times you’ve lost count make you wonder what it was like to complete the task for the first time.
how wonderful is the simplicity in thinking, the yearning for knowledge that is yet to be obtained?
the question as to why you drink coffee instead of a babyccino or wine over juice allows for our true motives to be exposed; for we do not always consciously choose coffee over babyccino. the idea, to an average adult, would be absurd!
‘me, an adult, drinking a babyccino? how childish.’
but why wouldn’t you choose babyccino over coffee? coffee makes grown ups shake and trip over their words, eyelids jammed open exposing their bloodshot soul.
do we choose coffee for fear we’d be perceived as childlike if we’d have chosen babyccino? what is so terrifying about the ideology of childhood? why do we crave growing up so badly and with such haste? what is so shameful about the questioning of existence and looking knowledge in the eye, desperate to have the last word?
why don’t we choose juice over wine? is the taste of sweet comfort too overbearing for your tongue? does the colour of orange juice remind you of wednesday mornings when you come downstairs, keen to work with jellybeans in maths as your teacher had promised you the day before? or maybe the coloured counters which had been stored away for a while because a classmate was caught trying to eat one.
the truth is, wine is bitter. no matter how refined your taste might be, there is an undeniable bitterness in wine which adults love to ponder, the same way they love to ponder over pessimistic news stories that are equally as bitter. they discuss the wine, using pretentious words to describe the undertones and how sensual it tastes, refusing to acknowledge the overt bitterness they are so eager to gobble up when they return to sobriety.
‘it’s too sweet,’ they’d shake their heads at the palm which offers apple juice, while eagerly smiling and nodding at the dark, tinted glass which induces headaches.
how about the brittle roll of grey, tossed on our doorstep every morning? the one you ask me to fetch you in the youth of the day, when sparkling sun-rays dance on my face? what do you make of the fine print that tells you what is occurring on the side of the world submersed in slumber while you’re in your wake?
what do you make of the numbers that tell you it’s warm outside?
why not feel the warmth from the orange orb above yourself?
why not dance under the small droplets of the ‘mist’ setting on your hose?
and why do we lose ourselves to the pursuit of validation, to the judging eyes of the streetwalkers which our eyes never lasted more than a second on when we were younger?
i now write as someone who is tired, ability to think in a childlike manner worn down heavily from the constant chafing of dawning adulthood. but i also write in the hope that small moments like these will recur, like clouds in the sky clearing momentarily for the sun to smile at me.
though looking up i’m often met with a vast, grey face, i shall continue to smile at the silver wrinkles, engraved by years of laughter and juvenile innocence.
Mar 2, 2020
Mar 2, 2020 at 8:11 PM UTC
Out of the window,
They fall like slush
White and clumpy.
They are bonded by their freezed-wet flesh.
They gather and fall
Gather and fall.
The buildings loom in winter fog
That rises and stalls
And like my mood,
I am foreboding.
I wish it could come and go
This winter-ous fog
This smog of doom
The stale flesh, the memory that
Broods.
And in my head, it a beehive,
That drills holes in two.
And like the other day,
I decided to do
The very act I did
At fourteen
Perched on my tongue
Two by two
The same time the german elder
Told the same joke of the train
That stops at the station
Two and to.
If I could die, I would have done it
Swiftly and true.
But I cower and I cower and I cower.
And like the snow out the window,
I disappear in twirling crystalline cotton
That falls into the same
abyssal, black hue.
Oct 25, 2019
Oct 25, 2019 at 11:42 PM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Infinity's Mirror by Nat Lipstadt
Two mirrors, set in opposition observe created notional blending,
a reflecting pool of bonding's of unglued, contrary compositions.
Mirror to mirror, his imagery, fuses to Sylvia's images, hers,
faintly recollected, now living face, face to face, with his past insurrections, alters his future visions.
From cold water lake she's drawn, impaled by refracting regrets,
retrieved, drawing her words upon him, an awakening slap to drink,
beloved, tragic magic, infinitely captive. But this old man's tiddlywinks, land-locked words, blunted instruments, needy for release & salvation, are neither silvered or exacting, just stains on a dulled, tarnished brass spittoon, except for the brunt'd bunting of lines across his roughened terrain'd face, black and white, pen and ink etched illustration of howling agitation.
His words worn down, hardened, red faced, purloined speckled pellets, damp to roll on down her rutted, almost ancient, tear streak paths, disbelieved superstitions, sacrificed for one of her living morsels of words.
Man, here to her, pledges allegiance, audaciously defiling her poetic sanctity, a visage endless repeated, delivers her shiny poem-poised countenance, even though no forgiveness from time can a mirror afford for either, from her words, confession born, terrible truths beyond, beyond the finite.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mirror by Sylvia Plath
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
The first time
I lost my mind,
The world seemed a destitute place.
The first time
I took it by force.
Left to fend with fiends
Furrowing through time,
Clawing at the day,
Dragging myself against the pull.
Life,
The introduction to
Something dark and true.
The second time!
I could stand no more
Of what I found before
Did not mean to come back,
Sometimes I think I didn’t,
Mulling in a mood grey and grave
The blue sky,
Once bubbly
Now looks blander
Circle of red.
Head of lead.
Lying in my bed.
The third
barely touched
Just scraped at chalk.
After that, I went away…
Opted out.
Nothing mattered.
There I sat in limbo.
Soured.
Dissasociated
Like an old car,
I sputtered,
Bore sitting and rusting.
Consumed.
Floating
Dead-eyed.
And how I laugh,
To say
That I am less
How I laugh-
To say that I am dying
To think that I am sloth
Sloth?
I am greed.
I am pride.
I am failure,
I am afraid-
Of everything.
I died some time ago,
Left company
Alone
So now I am back in the game.
And enigmatic.
Do I scare you?
Because I should.
I am terrifying
And cant be intimidated
I do not fear death,
I do not fear reprobation
But honestly?
I scare my self
And I am afraid of you too,
Fear is my super power.
Depression is my identity,
Something personal to me,
So-
So Welcome death,
Welcome fear!
Welcome Might.
You can’t comprehend me,
What it is to be free,
You have never died
Never writhed,
In fire,
You circuit.
I shan’t come out tonight,
Or any other
Night
But stand afront,
With twisted mind, bald and blunt
And I shall eat you…
That look-
Look down
Disgust
Divert your eyes,
But stand in my way,
And I shall eat you
Your eyes-
Coal,
Fresh grass
Red light
Yellow filter
Green eyes
Pain defies
Lies
Anguish flies
Panic stricken,
Anxiety driven
Rapture.
Quick- Look down now,
Holding back the wrath of Jessu,
This mouse will ******* eat you!
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 3:58 PM UTC
Your ambivalence
unlike her riddle in nine
syllables, is clear.
Apr 17, 2019
Apr 17, 2019 at 11:57 AM UTC
Manhattan is a symphony
Directed by her laugh
And the lines that trace her battle scars
Begin to fade at last
My Sylvia, you've fought a war
With more life yet to go
But I battle the same demons, dear
Please know you're not alone
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 9:03 PM UTC
For some reason I felt compelled to share with others, strangers I guess, I never met them.
Strangers then. Compelled to share with them you. To prove to people who never knew us that I loved you. That we were lovers.
I wonder if I harp on that word too often. Bet I do.
I do.
I connected the misery of your loss into The Antlers - Hospice.
In some cowardly preoccupation with signaling the virtues of a luminous man I pretended in due process. Much of me as you must understand.
You were a woman and a girl.
And I forced myself under to suffer in some actual mourning.
So a world built on my word.
My hands need rest.
My mind needs rest.
I want to stop.
I'd swallow a breathful of Plath-itudes.
If it'd quieten the lore of some rolling hill of you.
Somewhere scrawled in a red oak desk,
Borders and plyings a mess.
I likened you to a spectre.
For a literal in lieu
Why can't I let up off myself.
Why won't I accept love.
You are the woman protagonist in a fiction
And only your performance merits applause.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 4:56 AM UTC