Dear Sylvia Plath


You inspire my hand to be bold,
never tire, not to fight the rhyme
when it comes to mind,
to make every word count,
to make every line resound.
For there is, in every story I tell
an element of your style,
of your electric crucifixion
of words once starved of attention
but were you not once as well?
Biting cheeks to prove your love,
digging deep your hands in mud
to cover yourself and rid the world
of your baneful existence?
Then writing all for those eyes
to watch, to fall in love with you
and your mercurial scribing.
And you sure shocked them all
when you were finally a success-
stopped your heart on command,
gave in to the darkness, gave up,
left your mind forever confined
inside of that toxic metal box,
depriving wanting eyes of more-
so perhaps the orchestration,
the art of your own death
was your boldest work yet.

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