nothing else but my heart's desire [COLLECTION] | FINISHED

A confessional in memory of Sylvia Plath - ORIGINAL POEM

Pain you felt, trapped by the world and those you loved most, though that's what I think, all I can see, because I, too, have felt at odds with the world, forever, eternally lost. I have searched my mind for eons, hoping to find the right things to say, though now I think of you, all you ever wrote was from your heart and it resonates with me to this day. Even dressed in metaphors and hidden in stories, even in your journals where no one was supposed to see, I feel you in these words I write, the essence of what makes a writer and all they can be. It helps me heal, it conveys ideas as strong or weak as they may appear, its all to build a strong foundation for the house from where my psyche shall reside, right here. I hide my heart in all I write, these stories live inside me, I hope to write each word before I die, not for purpose of fame or fee. I have also known heartache and the things which haunt troubled souls at night, I write these words for you, for others, for myself, in hopes to finding peace where I can, in turning on the light. So now I conclude, my ode to writers and women, so alike as we hold our hearts for fear of shatter and break, yet only ever wish to relate to others, as we (and they) wear our masks to hide, for I hope for a better world someday soon, where we leave in peace and never feel afraid to be true to ourselves, from these sleepless dreams of illusion, shackled and broken as they want us to be, we shall wake.