Stillborn - Sylvia Plath

The first time I read it and paid attention solely to the subject matter, it became evident that Plath details the growth of a fetus and birth of a stillborn child as an allegory for her sentiments on her own writing. In the way that a fetus develops suitably for life ("They grew their toes and fingers well enough, / Their little foreheads bulged with concentration") so do her poems, yet the finished product is lifeless and she feels like a bereaved mother. I definitely relate (as do all writers really); sometimes we'll create something that seemed right and promising, except when we're done we'll  realize that it's not compelling or it doesn't achieve what we want it to, and we don't know why. Plath is confessing the frustration and despair of failing at her passion (like a singer that has lost their voice) yet structurally, the poem is composed and organized and does not directly reflect the anguish she feels with choppy stanzas or cacophony for instance, except for the last stanza where she uses enjambment to isolate the words that explicitly depict her hopelessness. The tone this structure produces when read, especially out loud, is melancholic as well.