Learn more about other poetry terms
In the morning her eyes paint the cities horizon. Stretching and yawning. Getting dressed; Her blue tapestry. Opening the door to her apartment She climbs down broken stairs. It's payday Friday.
I, too, sing America. I am determined. They say I don’t have common sense They don’t think I can manage myself. But I know what I am capable of,
I know America I can speak it But not sing it For I sing unusually In a separate language “Mi vida Americana”
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
I’ve known sunshine: I’ve known the sun to dazzle any dreary day And be seen as an indicator of God.
If you could only see all the dreams I’ve already given up on A love of learning, unfortunately can only take you so far That’s what I learned Without a place to call to call my own No house to call my home
Dear Mr. Hughes, I would like to answer your question. What happens to a dream deferred?
I write America, holding back the pain from her, the hurt from him, and the anger from themI’m a silently outspoken girl trying to prove that writing will get me farI can and will
When dreams long since are spent and broken- when a weary people can no longer wait- they will rise up, rise from raisins and sores and rotten meat, and they will speak.