Found Poetry 809

10/31/21

endlessly kneeling at the manuscript
my skin is a peephole
a bitter taste
bone is just another layer to dissect
knowledge is fatal
it knocks down pillars
with a remarkable pivot
stench from the creature of proof
practicing your stance
your teacher kicked your legs into the correct spot
what doesn't correct you makes you weak
what does, does not

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

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