Thoughts On Anne Sexton

Who was Anne Sexton? Why did she pass from this world
totally unheeded by anyone?

Would her survival have mattered to a single soul? Why
was her insignificant poetical world so filled with self-
hatred?

Does anyone know the tortuous hell her mind, heart and
soul went through as she lived from day to day? This is
something being felt as I follow unrelentingly in her
footsteps.

A cocoon wrapped around her mind, filling her with the
apprehension so undeservedly hers alone.

Sadness penetrating her entire being, cutting her off,
slicing away the life she could no longer carry with her.

Verse after verse falling from her pen, page upon page
written is total silent abandonment.

Unqualifyingly slaughtered by those around her, who thought
they knew her every waking moment and who happened to not
know a single iota of what she constantly went through in
her tormented child-like mind.

Fear of isolation and abuse, sexual and physical, kept her
writing long hours into every night.

Evenings blending together, no longer having meaning or
reason, bringing all thoughts to an abrupt halt in the
twilight of her life.

Sacrificing nothing except the hell she lived, Anne Sexton
took her life and hid it beneath the realm and understanding
of man.

Now not having to depend on the few crumbs of acknowledgement
or understanding, carelessly tossed her way in moments of
another's weakness.

Strength and power of the printed word allowed Anne to live
expressively while she could, soon, too soon, it was no
longer enough to sustain the tiny thread that people called
her life.

Calmly accepting the resignation of living while dying, Anne
Sexton did the only sane thing she could think of and the
last particle of hope she held on to, was calmly, acceptingly
let go of forever.

Sliding from her withered grasp, the existence of Anne's
poetical career was ended on a positive note - the poetry
of her last moment on earth.

by RoseAnn V. Shawiak

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