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I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don't they? They slide into the ear of a corpse and listen to his great sigh.

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
Great
Worms
Would
Sigh
Think
Believed
Thinking
Anymore
Daisies
Like
Ears
Corpse
Listen
Slide
Dies
Slides
Better
Corpses

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I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
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I am your dwarf. I am the enemy within. I am the boss of your dreams. See. Your hand shakes. It is not palsy or booze. It is your Doppelganger trying to get out. Beware...Beware...
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God is only mocked by believers.
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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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Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It’s as though I could fly.
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I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?
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Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
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Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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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.
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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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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
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It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.
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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
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My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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