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But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.

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
Seem
Doesn
Seems
Writing
Much
Good
Poems
Letters

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I talk to God but the sky is empty.
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Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.
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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
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You walked in, laughing, tears welling confused, mingling in your throat. How can you be so many women to so many people, oh you strange girl?
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I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.
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I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.
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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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It is best to meet in a cul-de-sac, A palace of velvet With windows of mirrors. There one is safe, There are no family photographs, No rings through the nose, no cries.
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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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To annihilate the world by annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.
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With that strange knowing that comes over me, like a clairvoyance, I know that I am sure of myself and my enormous and alarmingly timeless love for you which will always be.
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When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.
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Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.
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A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
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I have the one person I could ever love in this world. Now I must work to be a person worthy of that.
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What a man wants is a mate and what a woman wants is infinite security,’ and, ‘What a man is is an arrow into the future and a what a woman is is the place the arrow shoots off from.
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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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And you grit your teeth, despising yourself for your tremulous sensitivity, and wondering how human beings can suffer their individualities to be mercilessly crushed under a machinelike dictatorship, be it of industry, state or organization, all their lives long.
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I've got to have something. I want to stop it all, the whole monumental grotesque joke, before it's too late. But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
Sylvia Plath