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I grow old on my bitterness.

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
Bitterness
Grow
Grows

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Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
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I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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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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Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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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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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
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I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.
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... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.
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think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
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I'll Vacuum up my stale hair, I'll pay all my neighbors' bad debts, I'll write a poem called Yellow and put my lips down to drink it up.
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Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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