The rooftops
cliche
covered in white
the night seems to creep closer
and all these lines have been written before
Sylvia Plath
and her strange name
batting left innings in my head
dreaded things
clawing notes of suicide
and I am not even brave enough to answer
whisper bad echoes
from Gothika
bad film
bad writing
pretty black girl underwater
and all my exes are beautiful today
you exquisite
as always
me trapped in Brooklyn
in an apartment
bigger than I need it
smaller than it could be
I could be anywhere
and it wouldn't matter
where are you
my body drums the question
day after day
cold
tits
witches
and romance
I love you
world
would give anything to be able to leave you
and come back still
coming back is always
sweet
like thick milk
in Westmoreland
canned
tinned we are wont to say in the Caribbean
love and a bottle
and me
finally drinking wine
I feel like a writer now
know what it feels like
with more than the heat of passion in my blood
you have always been fire
in my thin veins of truth
I have always wanted to own all of you
you
were too big to be held by my small arms
babies and what might become child
not mine
I am sure it is not mine
might never be mine
with the tiny hands of Sylvia and her pen
pinning me to questions
I answered long ago
writers
spinning tales of how they remember things to be
how they wished things were
before the loss
before the breaking of small things
gone whole
missing you is a constant
dumb plug
of water against drain
and rain is just snow
in a warmer place
and I am not writing enough
meetings about CDs
and production
and the lack of money's to do things right
the bell Jar calls
and I am it's bitch
watch me run...
Staceyann
Posted by staceyann at December 5, 2003 07:52 PMi am sitting alone in my room
no snow
but I understand Sylvia.
Thank you.
Posted by: Leigh at December 6, 2003 01:01 AMBeautiful words Ms. Chin. I was given the opportunity to see you during the Women In the Life Event in Washington, DC. You and Doria rocked. But you alone, were truly speechless. Keep on giving it to them.
*Virginia is cold, but without you - the flesh becomes frost bitten*
I can't tell you how many times I have secretly visited your soul.
We are
"right here"
">>>
The words you spill out.. express my heart in so many ways. Make my mind process at so many levels.
Thank you for your fragments.
Your Questions.
Your random thoughts.
Your weak and strong.
Your being.
Don't ever think you aren't loved- even if you can't feel it physically.
You are prayed for and thought of Pretty Miss.
Be blessed-
Monnie
No one understands Sylvia Plath. That's a myth and she has become the cliche for the sensative psycho's downward spiral into depression and self-pity. If they had invented Prozac in her day, she'd have been a comma. But she does inspire you to write the kind of stuff that rings so true after the third or fourth glass of wine and Bill Wither's "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone." That's a lethal combination: Sylvia Plath, Bill Withers and bottle. Thanks for the am entertainment.
Posted by: Dawn at December 11, 2003 06:02 AM