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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
Would
Toothbrushes
Poem
Able
Everything
Come
Really

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I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.
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We know a thing by its opposite corollary hot by having experienced cold good by having decided what is bad love by hate.
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Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.
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After all, we are nothing more or less than we choose to reveal.
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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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 deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.
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If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.
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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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Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.
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because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.
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I have to live my life, and it is the only one I’ll ever have.
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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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No day is safe from news of you.
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I felt very low. I had been unmasked only that morning by Jay Cee herself, and I felt now that all the uncomfortable suspicions I had about myself were coming true. After nineteen years of running after good marks and prizes and grants of one sort and another, I was letting up, slowing down, dropping clean out of race.
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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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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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To annihilate the world by annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.
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A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.
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To look at her, you might not guess that inside she is laughing and crying, at her own stupidities and luckiness, and at the strange enigmatic ways of the world which she will spend lifetime trying to learn and understand.
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