#AmericanWriters #BlackWriters
In an envelope marked: PERSONAL God addressed me a letter. In an envelope marked: PERSONAL
I live on a park bench. You, Park Avenue. Hell of a distance Between us two. I beg a dime for dinner—
Let America be America again. Let it be the dream it used to be. Let it be the pioneer on the plain Seeking a home where he himself is… (America never was America to me.…
I would liken you To a night without stars Were it not for your eyes. I would liken you To a sleep without dreams
My old man’s a white old man And my old mother’s black. If ever I cursed my white old man I take my curses back. If ever I cursed my black old mot…
I was so sick last night I Didn’t hardly know my mind. So sick last night I Didn’t know my mind. I drunk some bad licker that
I play it cool I dig all jive. That's the reason I stay alive. My motto
It would be nice In any case, To someday meet you Face to face Walking down
What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run?
I know I am The Negro Problem Being wined and dined, Answering the usual questions That come to white mind
Love Is a ripe plum Growing on a purple tree. Taste it once And the spell of its enchantment
God in His infinite wisdom Did not make me very wise— So when my actions are stupid They hardly take God by surprise
I worked for a woman, She wasn’t mean— But she had a twelve—room House to clean. Had to get breakfast,
Well, son, I’ll tell you: Life for me ain’t been no crystal… It’s had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up,
