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I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.

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
Inspirational
Love
Burgeoning
Burdened
Smashing
Hungry
Creative
Bigs

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I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.
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That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. Save them for my funeral, I'd said.
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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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I am what I feel and think and do.
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After all, we are nothing more or less than we choose to reveal.
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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
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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.
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…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.
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I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
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The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
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I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly, as the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody I have nothing to do with explosions.
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I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.
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But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.
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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.
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As from a star I saw, coldly and soberly, the separateness of everything. I felt the wall of my skin I am I. That stone is a stone. My beautiful fusion with the things of this world was over.
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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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Why do we electrocute men for murdering an individual and then pin a purple heart on them for mass slaughter of someone arbitrarily labeled “enemy?
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