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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.

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
Wells
Well
Always
Hiss
Muck
Astrology
Bed
Planets
Gets

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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
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My safe, safe psychosis is broken. It was hard. It was made of stone. It covered my face like a mask. But it has cracked.
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I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.
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It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
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I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.
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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
Anne Sexton