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Miracles occur, If you dare to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent.

Sylvia Plath

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Sylvia Plath
Age: 30 †
Born: 1932
Born: October 27
Died: 1963
Died: February 11
Autobiographer
Diarist
Essayist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Victoria Lucas
Sylvia Plath Hughes
Long
Rare
Tricks
Spasmodic
Dare
Radiance
Angel
Descent
Miracle
Random
Wait
Begun
Waiting
Occur
Call
Miracles

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But when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right horizontally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew.
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Joy:show joy & enjoy: then others will be joyful.
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I don't know what started me, I just wrote poetry from the time was quite small. I guess I liked nursery rhymes and I guess I thought I could do the same thing. I wrote my first poem, my first published poem, when I was eight-and-a-half years old. It came out in The Boston Traveller and from then on, I suppose, I've been a bit of a professional.
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We know a thing by its opposite corollary hot by having experienced cold good by having decided what is bad love by hate.
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Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing- singing, laughing, learning.
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Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.
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I dream too much, work too little.
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I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.
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I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.
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we walk the plank with strangers.
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Let's face it: I'm scared, scared and frozen. First, I guess, I'm afraid for myself...the old primitive urge for survival. It's getting so I live every moment with terrible intensity.
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Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.
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God, if ever I have come close to wanting to commit suicide, it is now, with the groggy sleepless blood dragging through my veins, and the air thick and gray with rain ... I fell into bed again this morning, begging for sleep, withdrawing into the dark, warm, fetid escape from action, from responsibility. No good.
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Read widely of others' experiences, even if it'd be more comfortable to snuggle back in the comforting cotton-wool of blissful ignorance.
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Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.
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I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.
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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.
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Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.
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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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