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As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.

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
Able
Everything
Come
Really
Would
Toothbrushes
Poem
Poet

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I need more than anything right now what is, of course, most impossible, someone to love me, to be with me at night when I wake up in shuddering horror and fear of the cement tunnels leading down to the shock room, to comfort me with an assurance that no psychiatrist can quite manage to convey.
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You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.
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I can't think logically about who I am or where I am going. I have been very ecstatic, horribly depressed, shocked, elated, enlightened, and enervated.
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I had always imagined myself hitching up on to my elbows on the delivery table after it was all over - dead white, of course, with no makeup and from the awful ordeal, but smiling and radiant, with my hair down to my waist, and reaching out for my first little squirmy child and saying its name, whatever it was.
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You smile. No, it is not fatal.
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I do not love I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit.
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Good to know that if I ever need attention all I have to do is die.
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We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.
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Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.
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I am made, crudely, for success.
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I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.
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I need the reality of other people, work, to fulfill myself. Must never become a mere mother and housewife.
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And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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I could never be a complete scholar or a complete housewife ora completewriter: Imustcombinea little of all, and thereby be imperfect in all.
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I talk to God but the sky is empty.
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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 have stitched life into me like a rare organ
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I had imagined a kind, ugly, intuitive man looking up and say, 'Ah!' in an encouraging way, as if he could see something I couldn't, and then I would find words to tell him how I was so scared, as if I were being stuffed farther and farther into a black, airless sack with no way out.
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