The Slaves Who Were Ourselves Had Known

Being Alive And Being A Woman Is All I Got, But Being Colored Is A Metaphysical Dilemma I Haven't Conquered Yet.

And This Is For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide, But Are Moving To The Ends Of Their Own Rainbows.

I Hit My Head Against The Wall Because I Don't Want To Know All The Terrible Things That I Know About. I Don't Want To Feel All These Wretched Things, But They're In Me Already. If I Don't Get Rid Of Them, I'm Not Ever Going To Feel Anything Else.

Somebody/ Anybody Sing A Black Girl's Song Bring Her Out To Know Herself To Know You But Sing Her Rhythms Carin/ Struggle/ Hard Times Sing Her Song Of Life She's Been Dead So Long Closed In Silence So Long She Doesn't Know The Sound Of Her Own Voice Her Infinite Beauty She's Half-notes Scattered Without Rhythm/ No Tune Sing Her Sighs Sing The Song Of Her Possibilities Sing A Righteous Gospel Let Her Be Born Let Her Be Born & Handled Warmly.

The Slaves Who Were Ourselves Had Known Terror Intimately, Confused Sunrise With Pain, & Accepted Indifference As Kindness.