Quote

Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.

Anne Sexton

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Anne Sexton
Age: 45 †
Born: 1928
Born: November 9
Died: 1974
Died: October 4
Poet
Writer
Newton
Massachusetts
Anne Gray Harvey
Much
Talking
Mind
Others
Never
Wells
Tremendously
Like
Well
Occasionally
Need
Sadness
Feel
Either
Feels
Head
Needs
Talk

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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside
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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
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The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.
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Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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What's the point of fighting the dollars when all you need is a warm bed? When the dog barks you let him in. All we need is someone to let us in. And one other thing: to consider the lilies in the field.
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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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You cutting the lawn, fixing the machines, all this leprous day and then more vodka, more soda and the pond forgiving our bodies, the pond sucking out the throb.
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Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.
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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious
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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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Death's in the good-bye.
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The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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it was my first doll that water went into and water came out of much earlier it was the diaper I wore and the dirt thereof and my mother hating me for it
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