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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=345452" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Black Art</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=345452" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">A woman who writes feels too much, <br>those trances and portents! <br>As if cycles and children and islands<br>weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips<br>and vegetables were never enough.<br>She thinks she can warn the stars.<br>A writer is essentially a spy.<br>Dear love, I am that girl.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=345452" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">A man who writes knows too much, <br>such spells and fetiches! <br>As if erections and congresses and products<br>weren't enough; as if machines and galleons<br>and wars were never enough.<br>With used furniture he makes a tree.<br>A writer is essentially a crook.<br>Dear love, you are that man.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=345452" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Never loving ourselves, <br>hating even our shoes and our hats, <br>we love each other, precious, precious.<br>Our hands are light blue and gentle.<br>Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.<br>But when we marry, <br>the children leave in disgust.<br>There is too much food and no one left over<br>to eat up all the weird abundance.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Anne+Sexton">Anne Sexton</a></strong></div>

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