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I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.

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
Writing
Chocolate
Empress
Even
Bars
Empresses
Way
Illness
Apron
Wear
Aprons
Crazy
Typewriter
Break
Typewriters
Nice
Warned
Didn
Writes

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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Please God, we're all right here. Please leave us alone. Don't send death in his fat red suit and his ho-ho baritone.
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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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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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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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Once upon a time we were all born, popped out like jelly rolls forgetting our fishdom, the pleasuring seas, the country of comfort, spanked into the oxygens of death.
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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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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Daisies in water are the longest lasting flower you can give to someone. Fact. Buy daisies. Not roses.
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
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Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.
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Poetry to me is prayer.
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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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Take a woman talking, purging herself with rhymes, drumming words out like a typewriter, planting words in you like grass seed. You'll move off.
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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.
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
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Bless all useful objects, the spoons made of bone, the mattress I cook my dreams upon, the typewriter that is my church with an altar of keys always waiting.
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