In my high school creative writing class, we studied the Harlem Renaissance. And thus I was first introduced to the poet Langston Hughes. I really liked his poems and few of them have stuck with me through the years. Today the word of this poem came to mind as I pondered some of my hopes and dreams that are continually out of reach.
Dream Deferred
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?
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?
- Langston Hughes
Maybe there's a spot at Yucca Mountain for all these dreams I keep carrying around. (You know, if that nuclear waste deal doesn't go down. I am in no way suggesting or condoning the storage of volatile explosives with nuclear waste.)
Isn't it funny the direction life takes sometimes. Life takes on a life of its own.
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