There is something about poverty that smells like death.
Grab the broom of anger and drive off the beast of fear.
Learning without wisdom is a load of books on a donkey's back.
Someone is always at my elbow reminding me that I am the granddaughter of slaves. It fails to register depression with me.
It is easy to be hopeful in the day when you can see the things you wish on.
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.