So, its just a coincidence that I should be reading Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath the same week we read John Berryman. Its also a coincidence that a friend of mine would try to commit suicide in the same week. I would never choose to do it this way. Because I don't like to read about suicide. I don't like to be around crazy people. It makes me feel like I am teetering on the edge of the portal to hell.
I can tell that I like Dream Songs, but I am not enjoying it. Will I ever enjoy poetry again?
I want to read about something that is happening right now and therefore cannot be quantified. Will someone please right me this poem?
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