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.

A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.

You know those really really really long events you had to go to as a kid. Ridiculous stuff- like family reunions, or church meetings or just plain ol' being dragged along? Sometimes fun stuff- road trips (if you fancied them), Disneyland or whatever equivalent, or to family you actually liked.

Leaving at sunrise and returning as bats and owls start to yawn and pull up their sheets. That time of night.

After a long day of this and that and that and this. Well, I wish I could relive one of those drives back. Laying down in the back of the car if you had lots of space, wrestling with the seat-belt buckles on your back; or constantly trying to re-position your head against your window or that uncomfortable and non-ergonomic plastic-type frame next to the door lock and above the handle only to be bounced by the car and woken up.

Long after my brain would give up on trying to sleep in said conditions I'd get into a semi-psychedelic state. Watching the sea of red lights in front of me, ebbing and flowing little dots- each controlled by the movement of the others. To the left a torrential outpouring of bright yellow/white light (blue nowadays with those LED's or whatever). Not a single stop-light in sight.

I often would tilt my head slightly upward, my head against the window causing my vision to vibrate with the tiny, ubiquitous bumps in the road and look at those tall "7" shaped street lights. They'd come into existence as fast as they disappeared in a consistent and wonderful rhythm. Mesmerizing to say the least.

Occasionally the sound of the turn signal would outweigh the subtle 'whirrrrr' of the car and the sound of the road, only to silence after a soft sway in either direction. Slowing down, the beep-beep-beep of the "hey your door's open", and the slight cool breeze worked like a snap to a hypnotized me. Slowly peaking up to regain my bearings- only to continue forward once there was ample juice in the car or less juice in the folks driving.

But now tis' only I who drive. And I drive myself, by myself. Trying to recreate the same feeling while I drive wouldn't be quite smart... And so like those street lights those times have whizzed by without a sound. Only to be appreciated once it stops. They say time goes. No.
truly- time stays, we go.

Am I the one
To blame?
Do we both not
Carry shame?

I suffered so long
And prayed for you return

And now these memories
Are wood to be burned

I have no one
To blame
I live no more
With shame

when the language of rain
is in need of
translation.

when the parallel lines
have
crossed.

when observing the time
by the pizza boxes
arching
toward
a ceiling fan.

when pages of
stories are skipped
to the end unread.

rain touches the lonely,
rain is weaving  
the hearts
with dreams.

rain colors the lonely
arching in color
touching the sky.  

droplets  of water
through your window glass
tapping of comfort
of watering eyes.