To write like her, would be my dream
Thursday, Jul. 17, 2003 at 1:53 a.m.
Apprehensions
-Sylvia Plath
There is this white wall above which the sky creates itself.
Infinite green, utterly untouchable.
Angels swim in it, and the stars, indifference also.
They are my medium.
The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.
A grey wall now, clawed and bloody.
Is there no way out of the mind?
Step sat my back spiral into a well.
There are no trees or birds in this world,
There is only a sourness.
This red wall winces continually:
A red fist, opening and closing,
Two grey, paper bags-
This is what I am made of, this, and a terror of being wheeled off under crosses and a rain of pieties.
On a black wall unidentifiable birds swivel their heads and cry.
There is no talk of immoralilty among these!
Cold blanks approach us:
They move in a hurry.
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I want to write like her.
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