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I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.

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
Nothing
Forward
Looks
Couldn
Darkness
Head
Getting
Point
Pretended
Night
Pillow
Look
Buried

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I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.
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I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!
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There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart - It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge, For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
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For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.
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I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free—— The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.
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All the heat and fear had purged itself. I felt surprisingly at peace. The bell jar hung suspended a few feet above my head. I was open to the circulating air.
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What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid.
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I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
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I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead I lift my eyes and all is born again.
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God has to remind us this isn't heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.
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