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I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.

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
Soul
Amphetamines
Believe
Typing
Typewriter
Typewriters
Believes
Lazy
Poet
Poetry

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...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.
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... man is eating the earth up like a candy bar.
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You cutting the lawn, fixing the machines, all this leprous day and then more vodka, more soda and the pond forgiving our bodies, the pond sucking out the throb.
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Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.
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I have a black look I do not like. It is a mask I try on. I migrate toward it and its frog sits on my lips and defecates.
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I burn the way money burns.
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this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime.
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The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
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we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead. Your palms fold over me like knees. Love is the only use.
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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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Our checks are pale. Our wallets are invalids. Past due, past due, is what our bills are saying and yet we kiss in every corner, scuffing the dust and the cat. Love rises like bread as we go bust.
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I want to kiss God on His nose and watch Him sneeze and so do you. Not out of disrespect. Out of pique. Out of a man-to-man thing.
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Even without wars, life is dangerous.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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women are born twice.
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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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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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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
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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.
Anne Sexton