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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!

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
Come
Really
Would
Toothbrushes
Poem
Able
Everything

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If I have a dry spell ... I wait and live harder, eyes, ears, and heart open, and when the productive time comes, it is that much richer.
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There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.
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I must get my soul back from you I am killing my flesh without it.
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I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.
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I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.
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I feel occasionally my skull will crack, fatigue is continuous - I only go from less exhausted to more exhausted & back again.
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I talk to God but the sky is empty.
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Character is fate.
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The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed.
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I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
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If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.
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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.
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When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It's gone forever.
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When they asked some old Roman philosopher or other how he wanted to die, he said he would open his veins in a warm bath. I thought it would be easy, lying in the tup and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank into sleep under a surface gaudy as poppies.
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I must say that I am not very genteel and I feel that gentility has a stranglehold: the neatness, the wonderful tidiness, which is so evident everywhere in England is perhaps more dangerous than it would appear on the surface.
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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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If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
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Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?
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So I began to think maybe it was true that when you were married and had children it was like being brainwashed, and afterward you went about as numb as a slave in a totalitarian state.
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