Sylvia Plath

Being loved is

Well and good

But being understood

Is what I need

And it’s an empty thing

When people do not

Understand you

Let alone yourself

And the people you think

Would understand

Are writers long gone

Who died decades ago

In the sear of poetry

Like Sylvia Plath

With her tortured soul

Who I will never

Get to share

A conversation

Over black coffee

And a cigarette with

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