Faith Hasn't Got No Eyes,

She Didn't Read Books So She Didn't Know That She Was The World And The Heavens Boiled Down To A Drop.

I Want A Busy Life, A Just Mind, And A Timely Death.

There Is Something About Poverty That Smells Like Death. Dead Dreams Dropping Off The Heart Like Leaves In A Dry Season And Rotting Around The Feet; Impulses Smothered Too Long In The Fetid Air Of Underground Caves. The Soul Lives In Sickly Air. People Can Be Slaveships In Shoes.

If It Was So Honorable And Glorious To Be Black, Why Was It The Yellow-skinned People Among Us Had So Much Prestige?

Affection Makes Your Spirit Slither Out From Its Concealing Spot.