Saturday, August 13, 2011

Not Sylvia Plath

Hands toil, hearts roil,
Sickness settles in.
Lips spit, ears split,
Reeling from the din.
Legs splay, bones decay,
Tender ankles roll.
Time binds, fries minds,
Worry rots the soul.


Sometimes I use miserable poems like the one above to discard negative feelings. This didn't seem to work for Sylvia Plath, who killed herself anyway. But I'm not Sylvia Plath. I've never even been accused of it, in fact.


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