Wednesday, March 03, 2004

Edge

The woman is perfected

Her dead

Body wears the smile of accomplishment,

The illusion of a Greek necessity

Flowers in the scrolls of her toga'

Her bare

Feet seem to be saying

We have come so far, it is over

Each dead child coiled, a white serpent',

one at each little

Pitcher of milk, now empty

She has folded

Them back into her body as petals

Of a rose close when the garden

Stiffens and odors bleed

From the sweet deep throats of the night flower.

The moon has nothing to be sad about,

Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.

Her blacks crackle and drag.

-Sylvia Plath

||:PreCiouS:||
3/03/2004 04:37:00 PM
||||

.The Writer.

I love standing in the rain, letting the feel of raindrops caress feverish skin, letting it wash away my thoughts, worries and pain. I love the feel of sand between my toes, the cool wind whispering in my ear, the soothing sound of the sea, the warmth of a hug. I love anything vintage, historical, mysterious and magical. I like to laugh, I like freedom and happiness, I like the idea of romance, being swept off my feet and happy endings. I currently have no idea where i'm going but i know i'll get where i'm suppose to be in due time. I want things i cant have, I dream of things that can never be but i'm too afraid to leave the things i'm familiar with even when i know i'm adaptable to change. I can be the person you love or hate, like or loath, admire or envy. I am not perfect,
I am just me.