To my Lighthouse,
In public I am a wide-eyed
Young animal , a lamb at market
waiting for the closing bell. My lungs
Are taut pits straining hard against
unfriendly air; I dream of summer nights
Where I sit transfixed by stars
Who have witnessed many desires
As forbidden as ours or more so.
The heavens rise and heave
As I knit silly scarlet strands
Of saphic longing into stories
Heart's-blood bled dry
Nothing but bone now, iron cold.
I feel like a sacrifice
Every line a prayer procession
Of nouns and verbs,
An incantation of sacred words,
abracadabra; These fools read and gorge
Yet they never know our secrets.
Should I search the world to find
A room of my own in which to hide?
Where the grating staccato voices fade;
Peace is a dew glittered rose-garden
On a may morning
Or a calm beach with a shallow sun
On some forgotten island.
My dear, know until that day
You are my lighthouse,
When the darkness closes in,
And the cold storm waves
Of bitter melancholy break
Against my brittle gentle bows,
When salt brine tears crash
Against my papery skull, I'll founder,
And almost drown, but on the shore
I see your silhouette
So I'll swim.
Love Virginia
YOU ARE READING
Sylvia Plath and other friends!
RandomI wrote these fan-fiction poems to explore the love I have for incredible female writers such as Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf, and the way they created great art in spite of mental illnesses. These people really suffered, but still gave so much t...
