Fire And Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I’ve tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

What will suffice-

A few scream that life will start from ruins

A few from structure

But what she’s seen from searching

She sides with those that desire ruins

Nonetheless if it had to suffer soundly

She feels she understands plenty of dislike

To speak that for ruination

Is also superb

And will serve.

Why my brothers great

He was drinking. A Drunk?

but a father too?

He was drinking. A Drunk .

But my mother knew

he was drinking.  … A lot and

He was… drinking….but

My brother didn’t know what to do

He wasn’t the father I knew

I’d hear the sounds of footsteps dragging…everything suddenly felt Askew

He was a drunk.

My brother was the parent from my point of view and it was such a big image to have to live up to. He was Drinking.  He was a drunk.He was drunk.

And soon the walls would muffle the sounds of confrontation and I knew All too well how they would argue and send the night into a new

Direction….Filled with uneasiness in the air and the unpredictable behavior of my father . A father who never knew anything but the bottle to take away the worries of a new world …. And of a a family he so desperately needed to provide for …  After he flew so far from the farms he forever left behind.

But falling and stumbling back to his room he sleep to start another day in a new world he barley knew. And frightened by the fight fought that night … i'd go to bed too & like a n old saying tird and true my mother would tell my brother to 

go to sleep and one day she would say

you will be better than everything you ever knew…

Metaphors I'm a riddle in sizzling syllables,

An elephant, a ponderous murmur,

 A melon strolling on two howled.

 O flush fruit, ivory, fine timbers!

 This loaf's big with its croaked rising.

 Money's new-minted in this fat Cha-ching.

I'm a means, a stage, a cough in calf.

 I've eaten a bag grunted green apples,

Boarded the hiccup there's no getting off.

—from Sylvia Plath’s The Collected Poems (Harper Perennial, 2008)