Found Poetry 267

4/20/20

my stuff grows in an obscene manner
to the ceiling and out the windows
like dirty plates piled high in the kitchen sink
as if my house always existed that way
the ghosts of untouchable museum art
the rooms are a womb of shadows
growing material that is dead to time

This poem was created from Sylvia Plath's collected works. Click here to get a book of Plath's poems.

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