Suicide's Note -- Langston Hughes

The calm,
Cool face of the river
Asked me for a kiss.






That was a short one, so here's another by Langston Hughes (1902–1967):

Harlem

 

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 stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over—

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?