Plath & Images

You do not always know what I am feeling.
Last night in the warm spring air while I was
blazing my tirade against someone who doesn’t
interest
me, it was love for you that set me
afire,

and isn’t it odd? for in rooms full of
strangers my most tender feelings
writhe and
bear the fruit of screaming. Put out your hand,
isn’t there
an ashtray, suddenly, there? beside
the bed? And someone you love enters the room
and says wouldn’t
you like the eggs a little

different today?
And when they arrive they are
just plain scrambled eggs and the warm weather
is holding.

writing so hard?

It’s my day off. I should have started at noon. I have a story idea, so that isn’t even the problem. It’s just so hard to make myself do it. I wish it wasn’t.

Yesterday I went to an author reading at a bookstore and it just inspired me all over again and reminded me how I have to do this. I have to be a writer and I have to have that moment where people are raising their hands to ask me questions about my work and waiting in lines for me to sign their copy.

So why can’t I get started?

It’s 5:24pm. I should have started at noon.