On the 27th of October the poet Sylvia Plath would have been 87 had she not killed herself. I choose to celebrate her life and mourn her passing. This is a poem for her.
My eyes have gotten tired of the light
That must have been how you felt
When night came and nothing changed
Your heart broken by mundane things
Is that why you said goodbye so soon
Why you left without a word or a note
Your words were like magic
Musical in their execution
Now I must live without them
The ones you wrote on paper
Can’t compare to what you could have been
You had so much potential
Like an unripe fruit picked before your time
Can your voice still reach the lost souls
Do you still wonder in the gardens at night
Oh sweet child gone too fast
Yet your words are here to last.
I hope to do you justice
With this poem written by a misfit
