Class poems in the style of Plath

The Key to Me
I have a key.
What lock it opens I shall see.
My heart is a lock without a key.

Alone I am and alone I shall be.
But somewhere is a lock searching for my key.
I hope I can set it free.

They can be helpful or dreadful.
Be and asset or lethal acid.
Don’t fall for its charm,
or it could do you harm.

Tick tock goes the clock.
What does it display? An eclipse.
Curtained by simplicity.
The sun and moon’s youngest sibling.
Man made god.

There is only one thing I know
That starts life and ends it.
Acid in a cylinder,

Unlike me, you made things work.
But just like me, what’s inside us
can destroy us.

We’re similar in ways.
When we stop working for people,
we’re thrown away.
But always quickly replaced.

The Key to Me
A hole in the holder
like the hole in me.
Filled by an emptiness,
and locked with this key.
Don not open it
that is my plea

Every day, I bring joy to people’s lives when
they listen to me. Not knowing
that when they stop listening
I am left trapped by myself
inside this radio.

Pencilled In
I am yellow and malleable. I scratch, scrape
fervently, until my core is annihilated. Spent on
reams of consciousness that was not my own.
When held in blunt increasingly incredulous, tired hands,
I have the power to render crowds speechless.
Often my honesty is pared back.
My tongue and outlook cruelly sharpened, like a sword.
Helplessly, I facilitate the rallying of troops.
Eternally, I am leaden down a s facet of meditation
and imagination. I have no power to censor.
My own thoughts are easily erased.

You loved me once,
To my stories you’d listen,
Day in, day out,
When I was young, when I glistened.

You left me fall,
Tried wiping my wounds,
But the damage was done,
My memory bruised.

Now enclosed, imprisoned.
Dust on my case,
This darkness surrounds me
But I was replaced.

Was it her stories?
Were they better than mine?
I was once like her, I too did shine.

You scratch a blank page
Like tracks through a snowy field.

Destroying its perfection and pure white colour.
Do you harm the page with every word you write?
Your words shouldn’t hurt though,
Every engravement leaves a permanent mark, still,
Your words can be erased.

Your words say much
but mean little to me.

Pack of Cards
I camn’t escape
that innocent face.
Addicted to deception,
gambling’s a loser’s game.

Aces, Kings, Queens and Jack,
you’ll find me in the back
playing blackjack.
This should be a poem not a rap,
about Plath and how her life went off track.

I am a form of entertainment
Enjoyed by those with hope.
But really, who’s the one getting played?
I belong to a kingdom of queens and kings
But when I show my real side
I can make you a jester.

The Clock
All I can hear is tick-tock
As the hands go racing around.
The older I get with every stroke on the clock,
In the end there is nothing I can do!

It is the like the circle of life,
You may start off happy and young,
But no matter what,
Death is always the outcome.