Morning Song
by Sylvia Plath

Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.

i am so irritated.
i can't be trusted to listen to much but Sixpence None the Richer.
anything else will get me too angry.



i need a nap, please.

i am sitting quietly, polishing my shoes.

Sure did.

Five Panic!-At-the-Disco-inspired bands I could start based on feelings I've had this past week.

1) Existential Crises in the Supermarket

2) Uncertainty at the Drive-Through

3) Anxiety on the Interstate

4) Exasperation in Your Bedroom

5) Transcendental Break Through on My Cigarette Break