Thursday, January 05, 2006

I do think I'm too confessional a poet, and yet that's a good thing too, because Sylvia Plath is a confessional poet and she wrote beautiful poetry I am passionately in love with. Heh. Enjoy.

And to the both of you: CONGRATS!!! You have no idea how happy I am for the both of you. You guys are perfectly perfect for each other! And yet it's so predictable I wonder why it took so long to ever happen. HAHA. I believe that this relationship will be a most completely blissful and wonderful and lovely magical journey of your lives. Cheers~! :D Don't break each other's hearts hor! :P

Title: It's been raining.

It’s been raining. They say that I’m lying.
It’s this yearning that doesn’t stop howling.
It’s massive torrents. They say I’m lying.
Waters screaming. Silent blue moon shivering.
Waters screaming. Rocks crumbling collapsing.
Waters screaming. Thunder thrusting thrashing.
Tear drop shadows encircling, not stopping,
breath mounting, time running mysteriously,
Eyes bloodied with drowning destitution.
Branches twisting, distorted hands weeping.
Forlorn finger tips craving ounces of
Release, feeble underneath shreds in rags
Of wretched sneering sinister skies
Darkly stabbing sanguine souls, beginning
Sharp shooting bullets scratching surfaces
To pierce the hollow heart, permeating
Minds of insane instability in
The insides of the desperate desire to
Escape punishing doors manifested
With broken dreams and silent shattered sins
And locked and nailed and chained without promise
Of a key to flee bewildered fleeting
Fantasies flung and fattened with black lies
So devastating and disappointing,
Smearing and soiling my rawest flesh, cold
With red rage and resentment, heatedly
Alive with antagonizing aching,
Overwhelming every tiny trembling
Vein, overpowering every soft sigh,
Overriding spirits beseeching for
Some sentimental salvation, stoutly
Shouting help me help me help me help me.
It’s been raining. They say that I’m crazy.
Red ants creep all over my decayed skin.
The foolish pitter patter drenches down.
In the white weary whispers secrets bid,
Surreptitiously saying to me this:
Help me help me help me help me help me.

1 comment:

Miao said...

Plath's Birthday Present is (in my opinion) the best I've read so far.