Group 3

Nigger was bad, Negro polite Unanimous, black and white. People of color, or a black man Now has become African-American. Hyphenation we think polite Yet we do not label the white, Nobody calls a white woman European, Anglo-American. I long for a day when color we see Yet from classification we'll be free; A day we call a spade, a spade, Seeing colors we won't evade; Yet our judgments will not cloud With political correctness' shroud, When all of us bold and proud See the rainbow in a crowd. Colors with each other won't fight Instead they merge to form the light.

I was attending a seminar on numerology The speaker started with something resembling theology He presented a philosophy, sound and sincere And proceeded to the techniques, basic, clear; Everything he said reached my soul and made sense But his conclusions made me nervous and very tense. He concluded, in our lives the "primal cause" Of our success or failure our name was; If only we change our name to something else Obstacles dissolve even though they are dense. Unknowingly he caused fear in our heart, Upon his expert blessings our troubles part. All he had done was to have forged new chains Shackled our ankles, creating new false pains. He, the expert, the healer of our sickness Would rename us and thus redeem our weakness. I refuse to make an scapegoat of my name For my failures and troubles it to blame; As Shakespeare said, a rose by any other name Smells as sweet, to blame numbers, the wrong game. Blaming others, our genes, our stars, is profane They may impel, but to be compelled is insane. For me the purpose of sciences, even numerology Esoteric arts, divination, or even astrology Is to understand my own psyche and psychology Through which I can control my own physiology, Master my every instinct and base human tendency In my life instill divine force's ascendancy. I find numerology to be a useful tool If I remain the artisan, life is cool. But if I make numerology my master, I chain myself to nothing but disaster.

For the good deeds we do, they offer us the high heaven And for our evil deeds, hellish underworlds number seven; They offer us a carrot, and threaten us with a stick As though this is the only way, between good and evil we pick. When are we going to realize if it's paradise we'd make We must do the thing we do, only for its own sake.

The first artist was so out of place Compared to the rest of the human race The First explorer, no-one would chase The First scientist encountered disgrace; If the lines of history we trace People, pioneers did not embrace. Is it possible to turn one's face When standing upon such solid base? In the middle of such conforming space Eccentricity emanates from divine grace.

Every now and then I get a glimpse of what can be And briefly taste what it really means to be free, But very soon external reality sets in And with fear I close myself to my within. How I long that I could find The way fears from me would part, Open the door of my mind To balcony of my heart.