Sylvia Plath rips my heart, reads through my thoughts, goes back to the past then writes them in pages of heartbreak and mental anguish that is all too familiar it hurts
I talk to God but the sky is empty.
Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?
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.
Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that – I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much – so very much to learn.
I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.
I desire the things that will destroy me…
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