I Have A Rendezvous With Life.

What Is Last Year's Snow To Me, Last Year's Anything? The Tree Budding Yearly Must Forget How Its Past Arose Or Set

Yet Do I Marvel At This Curious Thing:/ To Make A Poet Black, And Bid Him Sing!

Ever At Thy Glowing Altar Must My Heart Grow Sick And Falter, Wishing He I Served Were Black.

The Truth Is... Everything Counts. Everything. Everything We Do And Everything We Say. Everything Helps Or Hurts; Everything Adds To Or Takes Away From Someone Else.

My Poetry Has Become The Way Of My Giving Out What Music Is Within Me.