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.