Go Plath Yourself

I run my hand along the broken spines

of the corpses of imagination,

the miscarriages of the mind.

For better or worse those stillborn children

sing in voices discordant and haunting

yet self-deprecatingly enticing.

I am weak but they are so strong,

their time so regular, their hearts swelled,

a beating drum I can’t forget to ignore.

It keeps me buoyant against the tide,

Waving but never drowning

yet always hoping for a hand.