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Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.

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
Necks
Thick
Silent
Hate
Speak
Neck

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I tried to speak in a cool, calm way, but the zombie rose up in my throat and choked me off.
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Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.
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Good to know that if I ever need attention all I have to do is die.
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Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
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I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.
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I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.
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I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print, the way you crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig-tree.
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I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.
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And if you have no past or future which, after all, is all that the present is made of, why then you may as well dispose of the empty shell of present and commit suicide.
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…beating time along the edge of thought.
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