Move over, What's-Yer-Face Dickinson!
I've decided that I will finally take my rightful place amongst the famous female poets. You are perhaps familiar with Mrs. Parker?
The days will rally, wreathing
Their crazy tarantelle;
And you must go on breathing,
But I'll be safe in hell.
Like January weather,
The years will bite and smart,
And pull your bones together
To wrap your chattering heart.
The pretty stuff you're made of
Will crack and crease and dry.
The thing you are afraid of
Will look from every eye.
You will go faltering after
The bright, imperious line,
And split your throat on laughter,
And burn your eyes with brine.
You will be frail and musty
With peering, furtive head,
Whilst I am young and lusty
Among the roaring dead.
Or perhaps that icon of troubled females, Sylvia Plath?
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
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.)
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
That one was posted on my bedroom door during the peak of my teenage angst.
And now my genius shall be joined with theirs, and I will lead a terribly dramatic and fascinating life, cracking out gems like this:
This coffee, oh so warm and creamy
Hath pitched its lover's dart
However, it is not so dreamy
Paired with stale Pop Tarts.
Or perhaps:
Oh I hate this fucking job
I beat my breast and wail!
Compared to all these crashing snobs
The rings of Hell doth pale.
Don't everyone rush to get my autograph or glue googly eyes on me at once!
The days will rally, wreathing
Their crazy tarantelle;
And you must go on breathing,
But I'll be safe in hell.
Like January weather,
The years will bite and smart,
And pull your bones together
To wrap your chattering heart.
The pretty stuff you're made of
Will crack and crease and dry.
The thing you are afraid of
Will look from every eye.
You will go faltering after
The bright, imperious line,
And split your throat on laughter,
And burn your eyes with brine.
You will be frail and musty
With peering, furtive head,
Whilst I am young and lusty
Among the roaring dead.
Or perhaps that icon of troubled females, Sylvia Plath?
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
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.)
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
That one was posted on my bedroom door during the peak of my teenage angst.
And now my genius shall be joined with theirs, and I will lead a terribly dramatic and fascinating life, cracking out gems like this:
This coffee, oh so warm and creamy
Hath pitched its lover's dart
However, it is not so dreamy
Paired with stale Pop Tarts.
Or perhaps:
Oh I hate this fucking job
I beat my breast and wail!
Compared to all these crashing snobs
The rings of Hell doth pale.
Don't everyone rush to get my autograph or glue googly eyes on me at once!