Quote

My sleeping pill is white. It is a splendid pearl it floats me out of myself, my stung skin as alien as a loose bolt of cloth.

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
Splendid
Pill
Loose
Cloth
Sleeping
Bolts
Aliens
Pearl
Skin
Floats
Skins
Pills
Sleep
Pearls
Stung
White
Alien
Bolt

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What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
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[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.
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bike downtown, stick out tongues at the Catholics. Or form a Piss Club where we all go in the bushes and peek at each other's sex.
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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
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Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.
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I said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still.
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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No one to hate except the slim fish of memory that slides in and out of my brain.
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This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
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Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.
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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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