a tribute to Sylvia Plath, and those who were sacrificed to their art
. . .
//Why do poets have to die//
Born with poetry
A finite number
And as their words run out
So does their time?
The world is only so forgiving
Truth must be swallowed
In small doses, after all
So that once we've had too much
We've no more use for their lofty thoughts?
//What makes poets the most troubled//
Although all have their share
One cannot seem to string words
Without spinning their own cord
The rope that wraps around their neck
Their own undoing,
They unravel themselves
Until the tangles choke.
Heavy hearts heavy words.
YOU ARE READING
Up Too Late
Poetry//Hopefully// my best poetry, random stuff from times I can't sleep and need to leave my mess of a mind
