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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
Believes
Lazy
Poet
Poetry
Soul
Amphetamines
Believe
Typing
Typewriter
Typewriters

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I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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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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I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.
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The snow has quietness in it no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
Anne Sexton
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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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.
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What's the point of fighting the dollars when all you need is a warm bed? When the dog barks you let him in. All we need is someone to let us in. And one other thing: to consider the lilies in the field.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.
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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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I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money.
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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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Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.
Anne Sexton
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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