Sunday Writing Prompt “Lady Lazarus- Sylvia Plath”

My heart opens with a shriek.

She takes in everything

as if it belonged to her alone.

All that is left of my tears

is the salt on my cheeks.

I scrub my skin raw.

Deep down I know

that I am the moon

my face pale and wavering.

Too proud to ask for help

but not too proud

to declare myself deficient.

I can’t bare it you know

this devastating mediocrity

I’d rather be a ghost.

I look askance,

arms outstretched

how dare I ask

for a moment of your time

when you have paid so much

and I so little.

How could this feeling be false?

A mere ploy?

When I can see my life thinning.

Right before my eyes

everything that I have loved

presses forward

and I falling backwards

cannot hope to catch up

so I stand looking on quietly.

I hold in my hand

the greasy, black umbilicus

but it cannot be torn free.

I cannot rewrite the script

it is set into my very bones.

All that is left of me

is the knowing,

is the romanticization of this illness

which has become my identity.

My indemnity, my indignity

what a joke, what a fate

to be defiled by my very own mind.

I feel their eyes on me,

their theatrical hunger

and if I were to die

They’d say “What a pity!”

“What a waste!”

“She was too young!”

It’s not a fix, dying

I think this sin should follow me

beyond the grave.


Based on my teenage years which was a very dark period


Sunday Writing Prompt “Satire”

Shaking Hands With The Dark Parts Of My Thoughts

“You’re not special enough. We are looking for someone with distinction, someone with a strong but vacuous presence. How many labels have you acquired? Did you bring your personalized glossary? Do suffer from independent thought? We can’t have you thinking, that would never do.”

“You have not suffered enough. We can’t assist you. Come back when you’re dead, better wait until decomposition starts and you’ve gone a little sour.”

“Did you say that you were real? We don’t work with anyone who hasn’t been under the knife. You must be tailored specifically to our aesthetic. I can see from here that you are not a factory model. Your skin is too supple and did you know that your breasts are natural? The breast must not yield on contact and under absolutely no circumstances should the nipple point south of the horizon. And please tell me that you brought a syringe, heaven forbid you should emote during business hours.”

“Did you say that you train? No that can’t be. Why you don’t even have a thigh gap and where is your 6 pack? From the looks of it you eat at least twice a day. I hate to ask this but do you eat carbs? You’ve got that doughy look. Have you ever considered lipo? I happen to carry an airbrush in my bag I can touch you up before you leave, we’ll straighten those curves right out!”

“Did you say that you had a mental illness? No that can’t be everyone knows that depressed people live underground and that they never, under any circumstances, get out of bed. Therapy isn’t for your kind. Now if you’ve had mediocre vacation recently I might be able to get you a few days of sick leave.”

Accidentally posted my prompt here! The actual prompt is here

Morning Song

The first poem in Ariel by Sylvia Plath. I am having issues with allergies and I can’t breathe that well so I am sorry if it sounds more nasal than usual. This poem was harder to read for me in general.

A Birthday Present

Alright I have a poetry reading for your guys today! I am reading A Birthday Present by Sylvia Plath. If you enjoy it I will read the whole book to you, poem by poem. This poem is from Ariel a book I found very inspirational. I am not much an actress so my readings are flat and my god that Southern accent *twitches*


The Veil


Tara Minshull

He’d peered so often into her coffin-shaped heart

Ironed the delicate black veils unaware

Was it he that would become a widow or she?

Their love was as smoke divesting each lung requital

They exchanged souls with the passing of pens

Her ink staining his journals from end to end


When drowning she held him by the throat

Her beak as eviscerating as a diamond

His blood despairing amongst her tears

His pulse swallowed up in her screams

He did not want that time should pass

The hours being already too thin to breathe

He sensed long her exit but could not reconcile

In his heart the method of departure

The futility of his own hands to steady her

Was far too permanent a conclusion


The clock became an anvil

Hammering each inflection

Sparks wafting impotently

From the papal white

Of its loathsome face

The threat of forfeiture

A weapon capable of splitting

Even the most obdurate husk


His ego had being unwilling to grant

That love was not as compelling

As murder for which the outcome

Was either evident or irrelevant


He would not call her broken

To say as such might diminish

The supremacy of her talents

One might say that the earth

Was a station through which

All odysseys must briefly pass

Who could judge the distance

Of one so adept at propulsion?

The sky shall not surrender her

Having attached adroitly its hooks

He shall have to be satisfied

With the stars through which she

The quintessential heiress gleans


I took on Bianca’s challenge which you can read about in more detail by checking out the link here


I am not sure what compelled me to take on Ted Hughes. His work is well out of my league. I listened to this poem. You can see I used he and she as he has done. I also decided to embrace his subject material aka the suicidal wife. Hell I even tried to delve a bit into his style. I am not sure how convincing of a mimic I am. I thought about doing a fellow blogger but I am a little scared that my feeble attempts might be insulting but if anyone would like me to attempt them let me know lol

Sleep (Audio)

7185127859_bdafe6086dMarie McCormick

I fall into the same black pit each night

Some call it sleep I call it death

I call it merciful, a reprieve found

At long last, a suicide that does not persist

That does not choke as a bitter rind


The heat ingests me

Starting with my heart

So as to hold the still beating flesh

Between its hollow venomless teeth

And spreading slowly to the extremities.

I lie there fetal on my right side sheltered

By the half moon of a wolfish grin

Eyes unlit but open beneath sealed lashes

I will remain there pale as the final dose of poison

Lungs fueling meditation, thoughts grazing

Palms and thighs, the proximity of sex

Pulse baring down on my spine

Breath stalking the curve of a wounded throat


I will wake as I departed only less fresh

The sun will be too bright for my inarticulate eyes

I will swear to her a day more worthy than the last

But we both know that such a day as I propose

Cannot exist in a world governed by gravity

I will fly off hungry and palatable

Until you, with your unerring aim pluck me

Unwittingly from a sentimental sky


Society why is it that you do not want me?

Is it because I refuse to wear the veil?

Is my face truly so indecent? So abhorrent?

The smile perhaps? Or is it the guttural frown?

Is it because I have no tag in my ear

That you may affix me swiftly to a herd?


I carry a mirror and two glass eyes

The eyes are for me

That I should not be misled by appearance

And the mirror that is for you

That you may see the futility of disguise

My frail bloodless sister with your pagan tears

And the wicker mouth that bows forward

As if a kiss fell between your lips and teeth

Or perhaps a dream wedged into the salivary glands?


Remember always that I loved you

The you that was reserved only for me

The you that crept sometimes under the fence

In full costume to the unmarked pastures beyond

Society swallowed you up in time

Left nothing but that ill-fitting pout

How I shall continue to love those lips

In your absence


I too am absent most days it seems

A false God constructing entire civilizations

Onto the pale measured planes of cocktail napkins

I live in words now, a poor betrayed widow,

I have no use for things

Each night I plunge into a naked darkness

Into the primordial consciousness

Of a rapacious incendiary

Alive in the wake of my newly laid grave

A death of all unnecessary application

A death of persona and pretension

A death of scarcity and scarification

A life more real that any in waking held


I was hoping to find a living poet with a similar style to Sylvia Plath if anyone has any suggestions I would be most grateful. I wrote this poem inspired by her work, I have been listening to audio recordings of her.

Audio Recording of me reading the above poem

Prompt 11 Literary Idols


I want you to write a poem influenced by one of your literary idols! If you use a specific poem for your inspirational source please share the poem or provide us with a name/title and preferably link to the poem that inspired your creation! As writer I have found a lot of inspiration from fellow writers professional and otherwise but if I had to chose I would say Sylvia Plath and Arthur Rimbaud. Had I not discovered their poetry I might never have been compelled to write my own and that is an absolutely terrifying thought considering how much poetry has come to mean to me. I was unable to choose between the two so I wrote a poem that includes elements from both poets but I will let you judge as to whether or not I succeeded lol I used Arthur Rimbaud photo here and on my own submission I will use Sylvia Plath. Again I want to apologize I realize I have been very busy lately and thus not as active or as quick to respond as you may have become accustomed to. I am actually quite slow at everything really and with Sam on vacation we’ve been making frequent trips to the country. I do not have internet access on my phone so I have been off the grid a lot lately lol


If you are a photographer share an inspired photograph


If you write blogs then discuss your favorite writers and/or artists/photographers. Who inspired you to pursue a certain hobby? Career? Change your life? Something along those lines I am quite flexible so feel free to be flexible with the prompt interpretation lol

Blog Challenge 24 Favorite Childhood Book


As a child I wasn’t really read to that often, I read to myself and whatever I could get my hands on. For a long time the only books I could really get a hold of were the ones my parents owned which were not exactly age appropriate. They did have a collection of Edgar Allen Poe poetry that I really enjoyed. When I got a little older and my mom started taking me to the library more frequently I checked out a lot of books on Norse and Greek Mythology. When I read Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” in 9th grade it was a real turning point for me. I started to write my own poetry and to pursue classical literature and poetry more ferociously. Not long after I read Arthur Rimbaud’s “A Season in Hell and Illuminations” and I knew then that I had to write.



Underneath a grim sky

Fluid with specks of dust

And the rapture of a fertile moon

I wonder will it always be thus?


My face pale and wane

My eyes dull and lifeless like a sharks

A mouth that speaks of trivial things

With a high timid voice

That understands nothing of words


The tender dialect of lovers

Will it ever move past my lips again?

Tiny shards of wisdom

That linger and endow me

With strange enchantments

Will I ever be inspired again?


My hands occupy my time with work

Daily I labor

For nothing in particular

Like a barren woman

Who tracks her ovulation

Even knowing she shall never bare any fruit

I am empty like that woman

And just as insatiable


Each night I fall into consecrated bliss

Yet even my dreams are ashen and uninspired

Silence gives me hope

With its ominous turnings

That both frighten and consume


This poem was Plath inspired and one of the only poems I’ve never edited. Though very old it remains curiously close to my heart. It is one of the only poems I have never hated.