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Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.

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
Butter
Blowing
Although
Maybe
Heart
Like
Zeppelin
Zeppelins
Kitten

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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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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think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
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It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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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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There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
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Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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Daisies in water are the longest lasting flower you can give to someone. Fact. Buy daisies. Not roses.
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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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To be without God is to be a snake / who wants to swallow an elephant.
Anne Sexton
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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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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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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I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.
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And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, My need is more desperate! and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
Anne Sexton
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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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The snow has quietness in it no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
Anne Sexton