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 Jul 2015 Lucy Ryan
Jennise
I try to express you what I've been feeling
But this wretched rush is coming up my throat again
This must be you..
I need you to *******.
******* *****.
Should I swallow the bile In hopes it descends deeply and lies in the depths of my ever aching belly?
Or shall hack you up and spit you out and flush you down the drain
Then wash my hands of you?
My finger tips are stained with the nicotine that has been nursing my anxieties lately. How therapeutic these Cigarettes Have been to me.
Scorching my throat as the air fills my lungs
When my lungs finally do give out on me,
I will be numb.
I probably won't even feel it
I haven't been able to breathe in years.
 Jul 2015 Lucy Ryan
Nessa dieR
Before I go, I have to know;
                Your arms
       Did they ache to hold me?
(Just like mine did.)
       Why
           Couldn't you care more about
                         Me?
                    (As much as I did.)*
A friend of mine had said we were like passing clouds
We met and together unleashed          
     lightning
              Strikes
                  Smolders until the forest
                        Burns.

But unlike you ,
          I can't resist fire...
                                I'm afraid of it
 Jul 2015 Lucy Ryan
AM
S(ex)
 Jul 2015 Lucy Ryan
AM
On that fullmoon
our body heat rose
above the ceiling
and every voice
turned into moaning
as my saliva left trails
from your lips
to your ears
while you were busy
rocking your hips
onto mine
 Jun 2015 Lucy Ryan
epictails
Whatever did Sylvia Plath
and Anne Sexton
have in common?

—two great minds
of the literary canon
who drove themselves
to the proverbial crimson

One gassed herself
like a condemned Jew
the other stayed in her car
letting the breathlessness brew
A melody of the swans that
not even Beethoven
could undo

What could have been
in their poetry
that consumed them in
the deepest misery
—like one of a dark soliloquy
or a dying plea?
I've recently become interested in the life of Sylvia Plath. One person told me a poem of mine reminded him of Sylvia Plath's. When I looked her up I learned of her and several other poets ending their lives in the most miserable manner. In fact, I found a list of 100 plus great poets and writers who did it. Even Ernest Hemingway shot himself with his beloved shotgun, to my surprise. A considerable number of them were manic-depressives, sad to say.

Plath's main style of poetry is confessional poetry, some sort of subtype of lyric poetry, I guess. In fact, her and Anne Sexton (who also killed herself together with John Berryman) popularized the style. This is a far-fetched idea but I think their poetry is part of what made them commit suicide. Confessional poetry focuses on the poet's psyche, individuality and even their very own demons. They sure had some dark issues but couple that with writing that leaves anyone bare, open and vulnerable to personal pain and depression could very well drive some people to death. I just realized while reading their stories and even their accomplishments how writing could get very dark. It's such a risky career if not wedged in the right direction. I always thought it would all be rainbows and fields of daisies. But then it goes deeper than that.

And that concludes my little blog entry and research haha. To be honest, confessional poetry is my favorite and most of my poems are of that style. I believe it's so pure and raw but is also the most tasking to write.
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