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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,
What happens to your soul when you die? Does it fly away into a distant place?