One of the great difficulties about being a member of a minority race is that so many kindhearted, well-meaning bores gather around to help.
What happens to a dream deferred?
We Negro writers, just by being black, have been on the blacklist all our lives. Censorship for us begins at the color line.
Gather up In the arms of your love—Those who expect No love from above.
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night And I love the rain.
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?