Sylvia

just a writing major who's professor sent her here cause she won't show her poetry with her name She/Her, creative writing/politics and government double major. make r#pists afraid again

[sylviaplathsleftshoe]

This Poem Would Sound Better If There Was A Guitar and We Were Naked in Your Car

When you're high

You're often fascinated by the mundane

And this time, you find your eyes

On the hills covered in redbud trees.

They're turning purple as they extend

To lick at the heaven's tender flesh-

Mary Jane, come here a minute,

I'm getting to be poetic again without you-

In the myths the sky and earth

Are husband and wife.

But I don't like to think

That the sky could be a man-

Why would a man be above the mother?

Instead, I think they're secret lovers,

Raised alongside one another,

Soul sisters that whisper to each other

About their children that inherit

The blush that rises on the sky

When the mountains rise up to kiss her.

Mary Jane, I'm lonely without you-

I'm depressed and lost and anxious-

But I find some peace of mind

In knowing they'd laugh about poetry

That doesn't come with love or music,

So I'll stay here with Mary Jane and you

And think about divine lovers.

[mckitterick]

[sylviaplathsleftshoe]

Angels &. Mutilation

TW: $/H (this is a poem I wrote years ago. I suffer from Dysthymia, so it's very dear to me)

There's something behind you

Who's eyeing the wine

That's running down your wrist.

The creature's wings are folded

Unafraid of you.

It's bending its head

To press its mouth over

The liquor pouring from your veins.

Eyes cover it's flesh

And they do not close for a moment

Even as it sucks the flush

Away from your cheeks.

It straightens when you're weak

And stands before you.

It's voice is distorted when it speaks-

When it sings praise of mutilation-

Like it's being pulled

From it's lungs by rope.

It'll smile at you before it goes

Revealing rows of teeth

That go back into it's skull

In a spiral like a whirlpool.

They're all stained with your life force.

It'll pick up the knife

That lies at your feet

And use it to cut it's broken feathers.

The bouquet of angel wings

Are offered to you afterwards

And the white is stained with wine.

[sylviaplathsleftshoe]

Fleshless

Bone marrow leaks into the river

From the eyes of a deer skull.

It's attached at the neck

To it's spine like in life

And it's eye sockets are hollow

Fixated on my form

As the mouth is dipped under

To soak up the murky water.

It's looking at my hands

Which are holding shed horns-

The crown of a stag is the antlers-

But when I lift my arms and offer them

She shies away towards the treeline again.

The call that reaches up

From her ribs is metallic,

Like a thousand nails against a chalkboard,

And the forest rustles

As more heads are emerging.

They're all crying the inside of bone

And the flesh wrapping them

Is long rotted away.

I offer each in turn

A try at the sheds

And they all screech and retreat.

Is the evidence of man

Enough to scare a cryptid

Away from its spring of water?

[sylviaplathsleftshoe]

Crucifix

The red beads on a crucifix

Are spilling out of the corner of my mouth

And being laced on a gold chain

Surrounding the body of God's son.

Out of my lungs through my throat

The metal is being pulled

And it's blocking my airwaves

For it's coming up melting.

I can't breathe anymore-

The wood of the cross

Is on my chest

And I'm choking from weight of

Gravity pulling me closer

To the very center of the earth

Away from the heavens-

Which are hidden from me

By the wings and the eyes

Of the angels come to determine

My eligibility for their gates.

[sylviaplathsleftshoe]

Poems for boys- A Bisexual Struggles

It's so much harder

to write poems for boys-

Girls have hardly any flaws

worth putting to paper.

But when I see him

I think I ought to try

Because I wear his

surname around my shoulders-

it hangs off me

like a winters coat

in my imagination.

he fixes eyes on me

and I want to see

my lipstick on his mouth.

I wonder if writing poems

about men is more about

writing a poem about

yourself with him.

I could tell you of him

of brown eyes and

strong shoulders-

but goodness isn't that cliche?

so instead I tell you

that I sense his heart

Is made of complimentary

stuff to mine.

like perhaps where mine

is full of passion

his is full of flame.

[sylviaplathsleftshoe]

Unfinished Houses- For Melanie

On 14th Street,

Unfinished houses

Are full of mice;

They smell of black mold

Which whispers secrets

To the little twins

Who sleep on a mattress

They share with three

Adult brothers.

The decay seeps into her skin

Tunneling through her eyes

Into her bloodstream

And absorbing into her

Nervous system,

Sending signals to her mind.

Her eyes are open

While she sleeps

And they meet the eyes

Of her match-brother.

The sun and the moon

Have learned to keep eyes

Alert and never muddled,

The mold and mice

Grown hungrier

At night.

[sylviaplathsleftshoe]

Caution: ICE on bridge

My best friend hasn't been here in a long time

She stays in our home and counts cracks

In the alabaster walls paid for by dead relatives.

I go home and I send her letters with what I see

Like the sign that's lit up over the $4.50

That says they're born and raised in America.

And the teenage boy in the truck who called out

A slur that pasted itself to my skin

And remains engraved into it so i can't burn it off.

I stand in the middle of a parking lot

Trying to remember how to spell immigration

But I can just read it off of the car parked by mine

And it's the words that head off my letters.

My best friend likes to sit on bridges

And I like to sit under them

Now there's signs warning about ice on our bridges

And I'm sitting alone under it

Calling out to no one over me

Because my best friend hasn't been here in a long time.

[kabber]

[sylviaplathsleftshoe]

In case it wasn't clear

I don't like AI. I think it's inherently harmful. This is as a recovered victim to genuine AI psychosis from an addiction to C.AI. I am doing better now, and have been off of it for QUITE some time. It's harmful to the psyche and the environment.

AI is not used in my work. If you suspect it is, please let me know. I use Pinterest and things for inspiration, and I would love to know. Thank you.

[sylviaplathsleftshoe]

Sometimes Life Makes Out With Death and Death Gets Dizzy

Her room is full of flowers all the time

And this feeling that can only come

From the little dust particles floating

Through an open-window sunshine.

She'd tuck a rosary out of sight

Whenever I was combing her hair-

Her bangs fell in her eyes-

And I asked about it once.

It was to make me comfortable-

Do the eyes of the Pope watch

My shoulders under her blankets?

Never finding herself in my room

She whispered to me about it

I couldn't precisely tell her-

While I held her under paisley sheets-

That where she had life and light

I had become fascinated with

Being surrounded by death and dark.

It becomes increasingly hard

To explain to your resident director

Why the only decorations

In your first dorm room

Are bones and pictures of

The girl who's become the sun

So much you hate the real one.

[sylviaplathsleftshoe]

Licking Lampposts

The end of the world started with a spark

That grew into a burning forest fire

She wore it in ringlets on her skin-

Mom says I shouldn't look away from my screen

Because I get less satisfied looking back-

She says I shouldn't look at that flaming girl

Who's smoking cigarettes in the snow-

Her mouth keeps catching red hot ash

And she plants a kiss on the icy iron

Of a donor-dedicated lamppost-

My screen says it's to honor someone or other,

Who got sick and died at twenty-four,

I wonder how she feels in the burning girl's lipstick-

I wonder how I'd look in the burning girl's lipstick.

My screen says it's not my color.

[sylviaplathsleftshoe]

Goth Girls In Courtrooms.

I have black lace wrapped around my bones,

Pulling tighter so the pattern

Remains etched where it is tightened.

Black lace adorns the shoulders of mourners

Drapes over the faces of the newly departed.

It adorns the head of a girl in a courtroom.

Who is twisting it out of her marrow

And watching it drip down her face like tears.

She claims she is anchored by passion

That her work is becoming her very rock

And I cannot help but find myself agreeing

That she has become her own Sisyphus.

I have black lace carved into my skin

And I would ask you not to remove it

It's a shield to my greatest adversity

Apathy and complacency.

[ppups]

[sylviaplathsleftshoe]

Blue Hair.

they’ve got a habit of keeping

my favorite books in the back

of the shelves of the public library.

they’re supposed to be worn-

nothing like the whirlpools

that suck me further down

whenever the pages open.

the pages are beginning

to become filled with holes-

little moons carved out-

from the burning fingers

of the girl with blue hair

i can see between the shelves.

and when she glances up

i observe the rotting pages

closer as they dip down.

a time will come when I am

rotting away like them.

and I’ll become nothing but

food for the earthworms

who’ll crawl to the earth

whenever it next rains

and be trodden on by

the rubber boots of a

kindergarteners carrying

her favorite books to school.

[sylviaplathsleftshoe]

Hey guys. I know this isn't my usual kind of post, but my friend is trying to start writing fanfiction over on Wattpad and I'm trying to secretly boost her readership. If y'all have a minute, give her prologue a read please. It'd mean the world to her, and DON'T tell her I sent you.

"Speed of Light (Peter Maximoff x Reader)" by FunkyGrunge11 on Wattpad https://www.wattpad.com/story/411728365?utm_source=android&utm_medium=com.tumblr&utm_content=share_writing&wp_page=create&wp_uname=FunkyGrunge11

This fic is written in second person, and is a Peter Maximoff x Reader fic. Your character has the power of electricity, which she can also

[sylviaplathsleftshoe]

"Rent"

I don't cry at school,

And the second I'm gone

I get painted over as if

I wasn't ever there at all.

The green is covered by

The thickest blanket of snow

And when I come back

I'll see it and I'll cry

Cause winters come early.

I'll have a resting place

For my bones among you

As long as I'm willing

To shell out more green

For you to take to tolerate

The existence of my soul