Virginia Woolf packed her pockets of stones and drowned in a river.
Obsessed with death.

Sylvia Plath put her head in an oven.
Making sure the kids were playing or sleeping.

Both great writers, both suicides.
Suicide isn’t usually glamorous.
One way to be posthumous famous.

They weren’t going for that.
But the creative edge
is induced by anxiety
the nerves being fragile
and Ryan adams made a song i wish i had me a sylvia plath
in the kitchen i sat
no in my computer chair
as i did the research there
doesn’t matter
need to go to the pizzeria
to get fatter
i have been losing a lot of weight
and anne hasn’t answered my smss
must be i was looking for a date
or just a fuck fest
i say i pay for the restaurant
a vesuvio is what I want
erupting on the table
is she able
to take in the flowing sauce
just kidding, i will stop
half that stuff is true, like 98%
i asked if she wanted to go shopping went
and i showed by treasure trail
but she didn’t read it
it was all a big joke
i just wanted to get to kalmar to do some ‘’sightseeing’’