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

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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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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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I burn the way money burns.
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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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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 was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
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I can only sign over everything, the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. Then I can sleep. Maybe.
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Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.
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Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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I, in my brand new body, which was not a woman's yet, told the stars my questions and thought God could really see the heat and the painted light, elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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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.
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