I still hear you humming, Mama. The colour of your song calls me home. The colour of your words saying, Let her be. She got a right to be different. She gonna stumble on herself one of these days. Just let the child be. And I be, Mama.

And I cried… for all of the women who stretched their bodies for civilizations, only to find ruins.

All poets, all writers are political. They either maintain the status quo, or they say, 'Something's wrong, let's change it for the better.'

No. Don't never go looking for love girl. Just wait. It'll come. Like the rain fallin' from the heaven, it'll come. Just don't never give up on love.

what i need is traveling minds talktouch kisses spittouch you swimming upstream.

Art... reacts to or reflects the culture it springs from.

So much of growing up is an unbearable waiting. A constant longing for another time. Another season.