So I've spent the past evening attempting to study for my final exam - English ('attempting' being the operative word). 
Usually, I'm not one for poetry, especially the depressing kind. I find it all a bit melodramatic at times. That was, of course, before I encountered Sylvia Plath i.e. the queen of bleak-dark-despondant-grey-sky-hopelessness. 

This, in particular, is one of my favourites. It's so wonderfully ambiguous, isn't it?

Maybe it's just me, but I think most people can relate to this to some extent.

Or maybe I'm just being all melodramatic myself.
That's a distinct possibility.


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