When the passionate fascination with death and the overwhelming, crushing fear of people and life itself merge into one colorless, intense and blurred
mirror of selfs.
Doubt, where art thou?
mirror of selfs.
Doubt, where art thou?
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This work by Lucas Vosch is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at capitalistjunkie.blogspot.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://capitalistjunkie.blogspot.com/.
welcome
These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.
They grew their toes and fingers well enough,
Their little foreheads bulged with concentration.
If they missed out on walking about like people
It wasn't for any lack of mother-love.
[...]
They are not pigs, they are not even fish,
Though they have a piggy and a fishy air -
It would be better if they were alive, and that's what they were.
But they are dead, and their mother near dead with distraction,
And they stupidly stare and do not speak of her.
Sylvia Plath
About Me
This work by Lucas Vosch is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at capitalistjunkie.blogspot.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://capitalistjunkie.blogspot.com/.
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