Wednesday, May 10, 2006

Sylvia Plath Syndrome

I think the world's infected. People are tired,
Stressed. Fed up with seeking something
Beyond reality. There are too many people.
Too much to see and do for humanity.
Whatever that is. So we look for a way out.
A way of talking to someone because no-one
Wants to listen to another complaint. Find
Something who will hear and comfort.
If I'm lucky, even give me a hug.

I think poetry is dying. People comfort
Themselves in iambic pentameter.
Because even the counsellor
Doesn't really care. She's paid.
The self-help shelf in the bookshops
All contain books on how to write poems,
With the odd one on how to scream.
We're all made of cracked plaster,
Slowly crumbling off the walls.

There was something sinestre in the old house
She saw on the far hillside. Spooked sheep
And shingle grave walls. She spoke in her words
To help herself and people heard her, yelling
From the ramparts. We're yelling from the
Downstairs window, trying to reach heights of
Madness, in an attempt to become sane.
We all need to be heard sometimes.
Syndrome's made me lose my voice.

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