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.