I would know you were serious.
There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday.
And the knife not carve, but enter
Pure and clean as the cry of a baby,
And the universe slide from my side.
Eh, you got Plath. Sucks for you.
Who is Your Alter Poet?
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And while we're on the subject - I've been looking for a poem I remember reading years ago. The last line was 'And fear that every drop of rain might kill me'. The Internet won't recognize its existence; that is, I can't find it using search engines, so if you know what poem the line's from, help me out.