Hello my name is Sylvia Plath.

My poems comprise of death and wrath.

My father died when I was eight

And that fashioned up a lot of hate.

He was a biologist who had a degree;

A degree to investigate and examine bees.

Poetry was my escape of reality.

Somewhere where I could be me and be utterly free.

I could express my emotions as a way of release;

Write anything I please in quiet and ease.

My poetry was published at a very young age;

I appeared to be perfect but was disengaged.

I graduated from school summa cum laude.

I know that made my family proud.

But that still wasn’t good enough for me,

My mental instability still made me feel lousy.

I chose to perpetrate suicide a few different times.

I encountered trials and tribulations that would not subside.

My first attempt was not a success,

My life was a mess with lots of stress.

I was not accepted into the prestigious course.

I was an intelligent woman who showed much remorse.

I was very depressed and mentally ill,

And tried to end my life with sleeping pills.

I went to the hospital so I could get well;

The electroshock therapy was a living hell.

I went to a party and met a man who was sweet.

When he went in to kiss me I bit his cheek.

That particular occurrence would forever change my life;

Because soon thereafter I became Ted’s wife.

He was the only man who was 'big enough' for me,

But our relationship turned out to be very unhealthy.

We had a baby girl just shortly after our marriage.

I got pregnant again but it ended in a miscarriage.

The total number we had was two;

This made our relationship unbalanced and askew.

I was stuck in the hospital for having an appendectomy,

This inspired me to write twenty two poems about me.

I was constantly uncertain of my husband’s fidelity.

I guess he was just way too horny for me.

I introduced him to a friend of mine,

I guess you could say it was a matter of time.

Ted and Assia had some intense chemistry,

Which evoked inadequacy and jealousy in me.

I tried to take pills to numb the pain;

Poppies and opiates but the pain still remained. 

I wrote many poems about my mistrust;

My husband Ted and his mistress’s lust.

My husband didn’t give me adequate lovin.

So I stuck my head inside the oven.

Tucked my children into bed.

And set aside some milk and bread.

Turned the gas on way up high.

And that is how I chose to die.