Harlem

I recently wrote an essay about a poem by Langston Hughes. Although I will not bore my readers to death by pasting my essay here, I want to share the poem, with the hope that it will lead to some introspection.


What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore-
And then run?
Does it sting like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over-
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?