Nikki Grimes Quotes

Choose whatever box you like, Mike. Just don't put me in one, son. Believe me, I won't fit.

Trauma is a memory hog, It gobbles up all available space in the brain, leaves little room to mark daily happenstances, or even routine injuries which are less than life-threatening.

You have to take people one at a time, check out what's in their head and heart before you judge.

Only the wind shatters the silence. I have been here before choking in solitude.

At the edge of heartbreak, we both take a leap into the unknown...That's when we see it, a buoy callled friendship.

Stories are breadcrumbs. Just follow the trail of books and you will find me lost among the galaxies of scorched stars and ships to Mars.

If a dream is in your heart, you never lose it.

Love is not me being who you want. Your definition is a whirlpool trying to suck me in and I'm drowning. Don't you see?...It's time...Time you stop telling me who to be, how to live. This is my portrait. You chose your canvas. Let me choose mine.

The fact is that you are more comfortable with myth than man.

So don't tell me that I can't fit in. My heart beats like a talking drum.

Forget who I really am, who I really want to be.

Jealousy is a waste of energy...focus on what I have, not what I don't.

Do something about it, or shut up.

I'd pretend their words were water and let them roll off my back. Now, I'm nobody's duck, and their words stung a whole lot more than water.

The day she clips her way out of her cocoon, the only sound she plans to hear is a deafening cheer.

Is there more to me? Sure. Kids yell 'albino boy.' I don't turn around. Choose the name you answer to. No one can do that but you.

I didn't have much in the world, but my fears were my own.

You laugh, rap my woody shell with wicked whispers shaped like knuckles, then toss me aside. Lucky for me, I don't bruise easily. Besides, you loss is someone else's gain for I am coconut, and the heart of me is sweeter than you know.

He'll never do it again,' she swears, but he will because she'll let him. Now me? I've got no use for imitation love that packs a punch.

The crashing sound of years lost shattered in her ears, and new fears emerged from the looking glass. Sometimes I wonder if she'll ever sing again.

I'm an artist...The difference is that I don't tell anybody. I refuse to give them new reasons to laugh at me.

Honey, you can’t stop hateful people slinging hurtful words like stones. But who says you have to pick them up and put them in your pocket? -- Nikki Grimes, Tough Tuesday

MY BLACK ME My father fed me Invisible Man, Native Son, No Longer at Ease, Black Man's Burden, and the more I read, the madder I got, and I already had reason to scream, but my father kept me dreaming of what words I might bring to the world.

I woke up this morning exhausted from hiding the me of me. So I stand here confiding there's more to Devon than jump shot and rim. I'm more than tall and lengthy of limb. I dare you to peep behind these eyes, discover the poet in tough-guy disguise. Don't call me Jump Shot. My name is surprise.

this writing thing was some kind of magic trick I didn't yet understand, except for this: Magicians rarely share their secrets.

The perfect size is happy" -Garvey

Son, don't mind what's missing. Count allthat's free: friendship, laughter, all thelove your heart can carry, and time -- count time.

I do like Manny, crank up the inside volume, listen to my dreams as I walk through the school halls, I choose what words to let in.

How good is different? I search stories for someone who resembles me. If it weren't for books and Joe, "different" would just be lonely.

Why let Angela call me something that I’m not? Or let her tease me? Bad enough the kids at school kick my heart around

Look around. Take the tour. Fear hangs on the wall and shame sometimes. Emotional dislocation too. But I am brave in my admission. Are you? When no one is looking, I check to see if anyone seems as scared as me, or lonely, or shy, or insecure. Is it just me? I'm not so sure. Is your heart an onion too? Show me yours, I'll show you mine we used to say. Your turn. Peel away.

Ready or not, I peer into your soul and dive deep... Your eyes don't like what I see. You don't want to be me. So you curse and smash the mirror which gets you what? A bit of blood , a handful of glass splinters, another source of pain.

The lack of goodness in the young gun's heart was oxygen to the fire, and so he burned for a good long while before I woke. The dream stoked my faith in the judgment and justice that will come someday or this afternoon soon. I turn up the collar of my white robe, relieved to know that God's got me covered 'cause I'm good, but not that good.

Best thing about friends: they know you inside and out. Worst thing about friends: They know you inside and out. My turtle shell is useless.

Joe shrugs off his hurt. "Knock, knock?" he says. "Not now, Joe." "Come on, man! Knock, knock." I give in. "Who's there?" "Your friend, Joe, who's always here for you.

STORM ENDING by Jean Toomer Thunder blossoms gorgeously above our heads, Great, hollow, bell-like flowers, Rumbling in the wind, Stretching clappers to strike our ears . . . Full-lipped flowers Bitten by the sun Bleeding rain Dripping rain like golden honey— And the sweet earth flying from the thunder.

CRUCIBLE OF CHAMPIONS by Nikki Grimes JAMAR The evening news never spares us. Tune in and we hear: if you’re a boy and you’re black, you live with a target on your back. We each take it in and shiver, one sharp-bladed question hanging overhead: how long do I get to walk this earth? The smell of death is too intense, and so we bury the thought, because the future is ours, right? We get to choose? Well, we choose life.

They tell me I should squeeze my hopes into a miniature box of their design. But I’m not so inclined.

FOR A POET by Countee Cullen I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth, And laid them away in a box of gold; Where long will cling the lips of the moth, I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth; I hide no hate; I am not even wroth Who found earth’s breath so keen and cold; I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth, And laid them away in a box of gold.

Why look to writers of the Harlem Renaissance for wisdom and strength in difficult times? Because these writers, so recently removed from slavery and a Jim Crow South, survived much. They still have much to teach us regarding toughness, survival, and a positive attitude.

God knew how hard and well he’d fought, The noble deeds his hands had wrought; God heard the deep sighs of his breast, He heard—and gave the warrior rest. And shall we weep and say ’tis night, When he has found eternal light?

The evening news never spares us. Tune in and we hear: if you’re a boy and you’re black, you live with a target on your back. We each take it in and shiver, one sharp-bladed question hanging overhead: how long do I get to walk this earth? The smell of death is too intense, and so we bury the thought, because the future is ours, right? We get to choose? Well, we choose life.

Hard to explain tidals to one who’s never gotten her feet wet,

I watch myself, like some stranger, rise and march right over to sit beside my old enemy, because you tell me your plan for her includes something nicer than a lonely life.

Don’t bother about what people say, mija,” he told me. “Let them talk. They only prove their ignorance.” I know my father’s right. I also know that words have teeth. Sometimes I get tired of the bite marks.

I know who I am. That’s what’s important—not proving something to some strangers I don’t even care about,

Mom still looks at my skateboard as if it’s a tiny coffin with my name stamped on the rim.

You can be pretty, and have a boyfriend, and still be smart, all at the same time. You don’t always have to choose.

Stories are breadcrumbs "Just follow the trail of books and you will find me lost among galaxies of scorched stars and ships to Mars." -Garvey

The foster home they were leaving was no place to be. The mother, Mrs. Boone, slapped Paris around every time her real daughter did something that called for punishment....After each beating, the daughter, Lisa, would swear she had no clue how her mama got the mistaken notion that Paris was the one who'd smashed a favorite vase, or stained the kitchen tablecloth, or whatever. My name is Paris, not Stupid, Paris would say to herself.

Do friends make better mirrors?

Round still, but that's fine. Feeling good outside and in. Maybe I'm not thin, but skinny isn't perfect. The perfect size is happy.

For now, I strap on chapter four of Mars Rescue, study the console, then ease back on the throttle for a smooth flight through star fields.

Maybe I’m not thin, but skinny isn’t perfect. The perfect size is happy.