Harlem
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I'm not like them
But I mean well
My pockets are empty
My Skin is Black
My Morale is low
But my GPA is high
My hearts full of love
I sometimes wonder if the greats of this country perceived it to be as great as this country would lead us to believe
I wonder if Langston Hughes counted bodies that dropped on his block like I count droplets of innocent blood on mine
I think God has a cruel sense of humor.
Because when I turned eleven and pleaded with all my might to become immortal,
I heard Him chuckle in the confides of the newly blackened space
Like a Concrete Jungle
Animals of the street
standing on the corner bringing all the heat
brown buidings
look like sideways slaveships
hold about 1000s people
in each complex
black
Everyday
Same time
Your front door creaks, did you notice?
Mine does, too.
10:30 AM, you walk out of your apartment-
The one right across the hall from mine-
And I make sure I walk out, too.
"Oh, Langston Hughes, what happens to a dream deffered?"
I have read your word, and I have heard your very simple metaphor.
You suggest, that it might dry up like a raisin in the sun, it might fester like a sore,
