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Now that I have written many words, and let out so many loves, for so many, and been altogether what I always was a woman of excess, of zeal and greed, I find the effort useless.

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
Emotion
Zeal
Effort
Altogether
Written
Excess
Words
Greed
Woman
Useless
Find
Loves
Many
Poet
Always
Poetry

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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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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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It is June. I am tired of being brave.
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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.
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I have been cut in two.
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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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Bless all useful objects, the spoons made of bone, the mattress I cook my dreams upon, the typewriter that is my church with an altar of keys always waiting.
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To love another is somethinglike prayer and it can't be planned, you just fallinto its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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The sanest thing in this world is love.
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So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
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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 heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death crèche.
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There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
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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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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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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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I burn the way money burns.
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