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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.

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
Keeps
Heart
Brink
Budget
Budgets

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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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 boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
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For forty days, for forty nights Jesus put one foot in front of the other and the man he carried, if it was a man, became heavier and heavier.
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My sleeping pill is white. It is a splendid pearl it floats me out of myself, my stung skin as alien as a loose bolt of cloth.
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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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I've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by
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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.
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Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.
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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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The silence is death. It comes each day with its shock to sit on my shoulder, a white bird, and peck at the black eyes and the vibrating red muscle of my mouth.
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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
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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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Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind
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