Eggs At Midnight

Yolked in depression insomniac peristolic grumbling. Scrambled Sylvia wants me to write. Plath write me right into suicide flame verbiage ... fried. Where does all the poetry go? in time for evenings news is ugly headline. Headlines to perpetuate blame, shame, victim stance dance in the silence of the Internet nothingness. One thousand years from now who will care? Poached or baked, mark me here. Make a mark in time and if it doesn't rhyme than no one read that she was dead.