“Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on.”

Why should I want to be white? I am a Negro – and beautiful!

Politics in any country in the world is dangerous. For the poet, politics in any country had better be disguised as poetry. Politics can be the graveyard of the poet. And only poetry can be his resurrection.

Life is a big sea full of many fish. I let down my nets and pulled. I’m still pulling.

Peace We passed their graves: The dead men there, Winners or losers, Did not care. In the dark They could not see Who had gained The victory.

An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly, but he must also never be afraid to do what he might choose.

Politics can be the graveyard of the poet. And only poetry can be his resurrection.

I did not believe political directives could be successfully applied to creative writing . . . not to poetry or fiction, which to be valid had to express as truthfully as possible the individual emotions and reactions of the writer.

I do not want no pretty woman. First thing you know, you fall in love with her-then you got to kill somebody about her. She’ll make you so jealous, you’ll bust!

A world I dream where black or white, Whatever race you be, Will share the bounties of the Earth And every man is free.

Good morning, Revolution: You’re the very best friend I ever had. We gonna pal around together from now on.

Never look for a worm in the apple of your eye.

A picture, to be an interesting picture, must be more than a picture, otherwise it is only a reproduction of an object, and not an object of value in itself.

I tire so of hearing people say, Let things take their course. Tomorrow is another day. I do not need my freedom when I’m dead. I cannot live on tomorrow’s bread.

Humor is laughing at what you haven’t got when you ought to have it.

I have discovered in life that there are ways of getting almost anywhere you want to go, if you really want to go.

Cheap little rhymes A cheap little tune Are sometimes as dangerous As a sliver of the moon.

But the act of holding on speaks to me so much more about a human heart than the courage of letting go ever could.

All my life has been a struggle to know, what to hold on and what to let go, but still, i end up sitting in the corner of the room with a flickering candle, whimpering, naked, shuddering, lost.

Writing saved my life when it all became too much. I poured my pain out into poetry I let the paper absorb everything i’d been holding on for years.

Hold on/ not because life will get any better/ but it’s 10 mins to sunset/ and I was wondering if we could go for ice creams afterwards

In the end you learn when to let go and when to hold on.

Anyone who has any kind of capacity to truly let go and give into yourself with any kind of desire to hold on for dear life.

I let go so long ago. I fear I have forgotten how to hold on.

Realize the past no longer holds you captive. It can only continue to hurt you if you hold on to it. Let the past go.