There are some nights when
sleep plays coy,
aloof and disdainful.
And all the wiles
that I employ to win
its service to my side
are useless as wounded pride,
and much more painful.

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may **** me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

your name is
forbidden in
my mouth
or in my heart
because when
i think about
you;

i'll cry a little more,
hurt a little stronger
love a little softer
because you no longer
make me feel sober

i'm drunk on the
memory of you

Night patterns shine on her reflection,
Tonight she is all alone.
The water deforms her face,
She killed the girl she use to be.
She stares in the ribbon of water,
The forest growing deathly still,
That type of haunted, ghostly forest,
That leaves you with a chill.
She can't seem to find my way back to Texas,
She wish somebody would point her to Tennessee.
But first, before she meets the one who is hers,
She must be able to meet herself.
She looks at this girl, yet she doesn't see me,
Her beauty shields who she inside.
She is so insecure and has to hide.
Yet she does not want to commit suicide.
Instead, she wants to live all alone.
In a dark, sick world.
The ones like in Coraline,
Or the night before Christmas,
Just a haunted, wicked world.
The one she loves is just so perfect,
She loves him more than anything.
She wants him to know it will be okay.
Her light comes from the ones she shines on his day.
She is just scared, not of him or if he'll love her,
For that is clear to see.
She's just scared of herself.
She murdered the girl she use to be.
The clouded night grows calmer still,
Demons rising with a deadly trill,
Angry eyes, all despise,
The question remains.
The terrifying question makes her heart this world,
This world of growing hate.
It is a simple question that has sent chains on her arms,
Bound her to her hell.
And she can't escape, there is no hope for her,
As he is not there to hold her hand.
Chase the demons away,
Or kiss her tonight.
She just wants to know one thing,
One thing that will set her free.
They, come, they take Rosie away,
She screams into the black night,
Kicking her legs against the other girl,
"Andy!" She calls out, but he is not there.
Her heart breaks, but this person is too strong,
Her heart grows cold as they take her away.
Rosie goes limp, dropping her letter,
Her love note to Andy.
It falls onto the muck on the ground,
The breeze lifts her hair.
The siren is heard from the land,
Dear Rosie is almost dead.
Her eyes turn wide and black,
Dark tears streaming from her once beautiful face.
Darkness, Evil and Terror fill
Her soul.
She is more scared than you could ever imagine.
She opens her eyes for the very last time,
Before she sees her love meet her eyes.
He smiles his famous lop-sided smile,
And takes a good look at her.
Because he's always, always, been there for her,
This story is that of a happy ending.
He chases her demons away by a simple wink,
She didn't have to go to Tennessee.
Because she remembers he is with her always,
A smile stretches on her face,
And immediately she hugs him,
Hoping the kiss she will give him is enough to repay him,
For all that he's done, all that he is,
She loves the Andy she knows.
She wouldn't change him for anything.
Andy, you have always been there for me,
I am so proud of you.
I hope my love can chase your demons away,
I love you.
Love, Rosie.

please! please! please give me something!
please give me something worth staring at!
i don't want to see this mush, this watermelon pulp
of a smoothie! i don't want to see it! give me something
i can cry over, like the mechanical lullaby from
the soundtrack of Coraline...
give me something worth
lamenting; it's not really poetry
if you're stuck in a rut and
suddenly gesture poetically
like it matters, what are the matters
elsewhere, what is really elsewhere
other than from being stuck in a rut in
a hole, where is the light at the end
of the tunnel? please don't become the tunnel,
let me see the light at the end of it -
i'm sick of peering into tunnels!
but you know what globalisation did,
i can write such ******* on the index
of pixels and feel all the more un-inhibitory;
i can listen to the Coraline soundtrack,
and watch my cat sleep,
and feel no guilt... because the world is
so large, and i rebelled against
globalisation by making it so so small,
it's so small you're not really allowed entry;
if you gained entry you'd feel castrated
or impotent;
like i said to her in her dipping of emotions
slicing her forearm open:
terror is worse than ******
(you can even hear them now, giggling while
being sterilised without an enforcement
to stop using both the contraceptive pill of
varied adverse effects and the anaesthetic
of pleasure that rubber ******* jacket)...
it's spontaneous, there's no apparent
symbolic build-up...
you can hardly expect the Autobahn system
with terrorism...
it just isn't there...
and while she sliced her hand en route the veins
i put the bread in the fridge
because it would provide a longer far away
expiry date...
and wrote that message on the kitchen tablet
in permanent ink...
i only went to a ******* because i was
rejected so many times, if felt natural
that such a profession should exist;
well d'uh, i'm all into speaking till dawn,
but sometimes a little bit of sensuality does miracles!
well, let's say it feels more than wiping your *** clean
after giving birth to a ****...
so there she was with her arm slashed,
and i encircled her wrist with my thumb and pinky
telling her: it's better that you didn't
chop your hand off.
and wearing sunglasses in the night
i learned the bonsai felines don't sleep as much
as you think, the ears are a give-away,
that sonar of theirs always keen to capture sounds,
they just keep their eyes closed,
it's not that they're sleeping,
these doctors of what is the vacuum and the existence
of anti-matter are awake
and try to hallucinate rather than dream,
hence they try hallucinating with their
eyes closed - until the real potent
hallucinations enter their minds while asleep;
dreams, dreams, dreams!
no, she can't be jealous of prostitutes!
she can't be, i paid for the ****** intimacy to feel
irresponsible and impersonal,
she didn't just do the dumbest thing imaginable
and become a pole dancer... no, she couldn't have!
what am i to do now? i've heard that jealousy exist
when you get really personal with a lover
who has a kinder profession than pure ****** exploitation;
but she did say she was abducted for ransom,
and if this isn't a lie, she did the most unselfish act
imaginable to un-servitude herself in a public exhibition
of exploitation... it wasn't a labyrinth any more,
nothing personal... while i got stuck
with music box ceramics of ballerinas twirling to a haunting;
she bought me like a kilogram of peaches
at the marketplace in the afterlife.