I Was Able To Not Fold And

When You Write, It’s Like Braiding Your Hair. Taking A Handful Of Coarse Unruly Strands And Attempting To Bring Them Unity. Your Fingers Have Still Not Perfected The Task. Some Of The Braids Are Long, Others Are Short. Some Are Thick, Others Are Thin. Some Are Heavy. Others Are Light. Like The Diverse Women Of Your Family. Those Whose Fables And Metaphors, Whose Similes And Soliloquies, Whose Diction And Je Ne Sais Quoi Daily Slip Into Your Survival Soup, By Way Of Their Fingers.

Misery Won't Touch You Gentle. It Always Leaves Its Thumbprints On You; Sometimes It Leaves Them For Others To See, Sometimes For Nobody But You To Know Of.

It Is The Calm And Silent Waters That Drown You.

Life's Hard In Haiti Right Now. And The Hardest Thing Is That The Future Does Not Lie With One Person.

People Are Just Too Hopeful, And Sometimes Hope Is The Biggest Weapon Of All To Use Against Us. People Will Believe Anything.