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It is June. I am tired of being brave.

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
June
Brave
Tired

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They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.
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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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I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse.
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Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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A woman / who loves a woman / is forever young.
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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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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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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
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Loving me with my shoes off means loving my long brown legs, sweet dears, as good as spoons and my feet, those two children let out to play naked.
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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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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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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father's genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.
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