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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
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
Husband
Skull
Wife
Skulls
Home
Hospital
Womb
Nurture
Hospitals
Shelter
Dams
Mental
Bethlehem
More quotes by Anne Sexton
I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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I burn the way money burns.
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It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
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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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Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.
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it was my first doll that water went into and water came out of much earlier it was the diaper I wore and the dirt thereof and my mother hating me for it
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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It would be pleasant to be drunk.
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Need is not quite belief.
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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 am younger each year at the first snow.
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is Whatever you do, don't be boring.
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