There are no obituaries for Sylvia Plath.


A fact that I find most interesting.


For a revolutionary in free-form poetry, a less-than-silent sufferer, a martyr at her own hand.


She is a symbol.


Of those not meant to be, of the child with down, shifting eyes.


Of those a victim and a cause that would all-too-soon bring their demise.


Of powerless dictators, of those without mercy, taking things in their own hands.


Of sufferers, silent sufferers, of those whose screams are too loud to be heard.


"I'm drowning, please help me, I feel myself fading." 


"Don't worry, just breathe, pick yourself up and distance will be aiding


what you feel now.


Don't worry. This is all just a phase. Be grateful. You'll be doing


yourself a favor. Don't worry. You'll be fine."


A rapidly growing spot, dark red mine. 


It tells us that time


was not enough. 


But gas, razors, bullets


can heal all.




This poem is about: 
Our world


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