Sylvia Plath

I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.
I am read more

I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.
I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.

For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.

I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.

I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.

What I want back is what I was
Before the bed, before the knife,
Before the brooch-pin and the salve
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What I want back is what I was
Before the bed, before the knife,
Before the brooch-pin and the salve
Fixed me in this parenthesis;
Horses fluent in the wind,
A place, a time gone out of mind.

The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm

The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm