Oh, Sylvia — a poem about Sylvia Plath

a poem to my muse, forgive my inadequacy

Oh, Sylvia,

From what little death
came your mind to brilliance, dark
that aimed to steal you

Oh, Sylvia why
when youth still bore your name, night
rested on your face

Your words became my
muse, genius veiled in darkness
gone only in breath.

Your brilliance lives on
encapsulated in poem
winged word spirits

Oh, Sylvia.
My words are pale.

No words could properly express the awe I feel when reading Sylvia Plath’s poetry. Her mental illness was both a gift to her writing and a curse to her living. It is because of her that I fell in love with words. Below are a few links to poems that I have written that channel my “inner Plath” — or at least tried to do so. I wish that for just a few minutes I could speak to Sylvia Plath and ask her about her writing. What a gift she gave us all. Thank you, Sylvia.

Note: If you are suffering from depression — please seek help. People love you. Don’t believe the lies of the darkness. You do not have to be defined by your illness.

𝘐 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭-𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘳. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘫𝘢𝘮.

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