Quotes About Suffering

Later he explained that when a person is beating you you should scream as loud as possible; maybe the whipper will become embarrassed or else some sympathetic soul might come to your rescue.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom. from Caged Bird

Momma convinced us that not only was cleanliness next to Godliness, dirtiness was the inventor of misery. The

My race groaned. It was our people falling. It was another lynching, yet another Black man hanging on a tree. One more woman ambushed and raped. A Black boy whipped and maimed. It was hounds on the trail of a man running through slimy swamps. It was a white woman slapping her maid for being forgetful.

Each time, my search for true love Leads me to the gates of hell.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream his wings are clipped and his feed are tied so his opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant ill for the caged bird sings of freedom.

Could I tell her now? The terrible pain assured me that I couldn't. What he did to me, and what I allowed, must have been very bad if already God let me hurt so much.

I had no heart nor art to drag him back to the reeking reality of our life and times.

Misery is a faithful company keeper, and Comfort was dissolving under its attention.

Reality began its tedious crawl back into their reasoning. After all, they were needy and hungry and despised and dispossessed, and sinners the world over were in the driver's seat. How long, merciful Father? How long? A

He badder than death yet gives no sweet release.

The idea came to me that my people may be a race of masochists and that not only was it our fate to live the poorest, roughest life but that we liked it like that.

Uncle Willie ordered us between licks to stop crying. I tried to, but Bailey refused to cooperate. Later he explained that when a person is beating you you should scream as loud as possible; maybe the whipper will become embarrassed or else some sympathetic soul might come to your rescue.

Some kind of love, Some Say Is it true the ribs can tell the kick Of a beast from a lover's fist? The bruised bones record it well The sudden shock, the hard impact Then swollen lids Sorry eyes spoke not of lost romance But of hurt Hate is often confused Its limits are in zones beyond itself And sadists will not learn that Love, by nature, extracts a pain Unequalled on the rack

I keep on dying, Because I love to live.

The Traveler Byways and bygone And lone nights long Sun rays and sea waves And star and stone Manless and friendless No cave my home This is my Torture My long nights, lone

I couldn't distinguish whether I was smelling the clutching sound of misery or hearing the cloying odor of death.

The thorn from the bush one has planted, nourished and pruned, pricks most deeply and draws more blood.

Midwives and winding sheets know birthing is hard and dying is mean and living's a trial in between. Why do we journey, muttering like rumors among the stars? Is a dimension lost? Is it love?

Have you ever been torn between two impossibilities and knew in your heart that no matter which way you went or which path you chose that you were doomed to unhappiness?

You don't understand. How could you? We were in the worst sort of hell. We weren't living day to day or even hour to hour. We survived minute by excruciating minute. The next day was an eternity away and we didn't want it. Death wasn't the enemy. It was our salvation.

Twas such a useless thing. And so unnecessary. Many had suffered for the actions of a few. Wasn't that always the way of things? The collective suffered for the actions of an inept, ineffectual leader.

That hurt querida, that really hurt

But I love him. You know it. You can't ask me to just sit back and let Paul do this. If he succeeds I won't even remember having met Jesse. Right, my dad said reasonably. So it won't hurt. It will, I insisted, It will hurt, Dad. Because deep down I'll know. I'll know there was someone… someone I was supposed to have met. Only I'll never meet him. I'll go through my whole life waiting for him to come along, only he never will. What kind of life is that, Dad, huh? What kind of life is that?