I have diarrhea of the fingers

I can't stop typing. Okay I figure if I believe in poetry I am going to need some sort of bible type thing right? Which is funny, cause this literature teacher I had said that a bunch of people got together once to put a collection of poetry in hotel rooms with Gideon's bible. The problem was they couldn't decide what would go in it. But this is just me, so no one to disagree.

First

Anne Sexton

Her Kind

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

I really love William Carlos Williams. He will be in there for sure. I wish I could remember this one poem I read in a compilation text I got for my literature class. It is basically a man home alone. His kids and wife are gone and he dances in the mirror. That poem washes over me and fills me with something so pure words can not describe.