So, I've been feeling blue lately. You don't have to be suicidal to appreciate Sylvia Plath. And her life was fascinating even without the suicide. I busted out my contemporary poetry anthology (a Norton anthology, thank you very much. I don't fuck around.) and I wanted to read this poem. Tulips. It's...unexpected. It's scary and sad. It's how I feel today. I was going to copy it over, but it's long. So I'll put some lines that I particularly like, but you can read it in its entirety here. And you really, really should.
"I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions."
"I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free--
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet."
"The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me...
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck."
The whole thing is better. Read the whole thing. You'll like it.
Go read Tulips.