To Sylvia Plath
drawn into thoughts of suicide
and self-inflicted pain
she flew in clouds of blood-shot stars
and now i do the same
her life her death her misery
compounded in my veins
the way she died so many times
and how she won this game
sadness and rhythmic tears that her
dark poetry explains
are flooding through my hollow scars
that bleed and still remain
my eyes blink in mindless fury
and twist upon this page
the sleep inside the empty shell
that cries and spits in rage
her words create this vacancy
that whispers in my cage
but the bars are even stronger
as solace grows with age
and the meaning in her poems
that smiles can't derange
is that such perfect happiness
can never be arranged
Jessie Sobey
