An Ode To My Mother
I can not count the ways you have cared for me,
I can never repay you for the love you shared with me,
I can never forget the wisdom uttered from your lips,
I can never forget the wondrous works of your fingertips.
I can never forget the sweetness of your tears,
I can not forget how you helped me fight my fears,
I can never regret any time I spent with you,
You taught me that my dreams can come true.
I shall never allow my love for you to cease,
In your voice I find comfort and peace,
I shall always remember your bedtime stories and lullabies,
I shall see love forever in my mother's eyes.
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The Heart Of The Ghetto
I hear the heart of the ghetto beating like the thunder
of an army of ancient kettle drums.
In it dwells the passion for prosperity, the power of peace, and the promise
of pain.
All of these components intertwine tightly as if to form a fine cloth--in
this case a quality individual.
The promise of pain, the pulse of the heart and the element which is not
self-explanatory, exists because only in enduring suffering one grows stronger.
As the person grows stronger the heartbeat grows stronger.
Although we do not desire pain, we do desire the product of pain which
is strength.
We all know that in time and with a positive outlook that poverty in any
fashion gives us one solemn vow and that vow is that we shall learn to
be rich in our destitute state of being.
I hear the mighty blast of war drums.
I hear the heart of the ghetto beating.
I hear it because it beats inside of me.
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