I loved Sylvia Plath so much as a teen and believed no one understood my pain as much as her. Twentyfive years later I can still recite Lady Lazarus and Daddy with all that remembered angst that brought me to her in the first place. The rhythm of both those poems is the key for me and the bitterness of none understanding others. I remember going to an event at a book store where all the lights were turned off and we listened to her recordings of these poems. The drama of her broken voice was bliss for me, glamorous, like you say and on the edge. I almost feel silly to admit to admit to being attracted to such darkness now.