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The silence is death. It comes each day with its shock to sit on my shoulder, a white bird, and peck at the black eyes and the vibrating red muscle of my mouth.
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
Eye
Shock
White
Shoulders
Black
Red
Comes
Mouth
Peck
Death
Mouths
Vibrating
Bird
Muscle
Silence
Shoulder
Eyes
Muscles
More quotes by Anne Sexton
Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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I've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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I tied down time with a rope but it came back. Then I put my head in a death bowl and my eyes shut up like clams. They didn't come back.
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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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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.
Anne Sexton
women are born twice.
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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
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If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover.
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You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going
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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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All who love have lied.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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I would like to bury all the hating eyes under the sand somewhere.
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It is June. I am tired of being brave.
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We are all writing God's poem.
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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 joy that isn't shared dies young.
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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
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