Poetry Schmoetry.

Fig Tree

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were amny more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

-Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

Them.

While I sit up here,

I watch them

Through the rain-covered window pane.

They embrace, they're blurry.

They kiss, and they walk away without looking

back one more time.

My tears become the rain on my windows and I

search again in the skyline for anything to

make me feel something.

-anon

What Am I?

You can hear me,

but you can't see me.

I take up space,

but apparently not enough.

Walk into me,

and you just might notice.

Don't mind me

I'd better let you be.

-anon

this is the recipe to life

said my mother

as she help me in her arms as i wept

think of those flowers you plant

in the garden each year

they will teach you

that people too

must wilt

fall

root

rise

in order to bloom

-rupi kaur