Found Poems, Plath’s Journals, Part 7

VII.
 
on a bare stage,
one must have inspiration (breathing)
 
I have been trying,
sewing on the flesh I must wear
with flowering threads—
an anonymous body lapsing
into what being feels like.
 
after drinking too long from a stagnant well,
I grew small
spacious acres of loud feelings. I was unwell:
fat, imperfect,
and diminishing.
 
I should not have caged those acres,
but I was afraid of the growth of something
material, or fatal,
from resilient remnants of old wounds.
 
faced with the choice of being, or ricocheting,
I could not verbalize these energies
into direction or force.
 
but now, from a corner—I unrust.
listen how it sounds:
 
a box clicking open,
a pen scratching out new lines.

Feedback: 1 | 2

used pages 53-59 of Plath’s journals as sort of a word bank, picking out words/phrases that caught my interest, then rearranging them and adding my own words or phrases.

already edited a little from first posting; the last three stanzas originally read

now, from a corner,
I unrust—faced with the choice
of being, or ricocheting.
 
before, I could not verbalize these energies
into direction or force—but now
listen how it sounds:
 
a box clicking open,
a pen scratching out new lines.