#AmericanWriters
I got to leave this town. It’s a lonesome place. Got to leave this town cause It’s a lonesome place. A po’, po’ boy can’t
When the shoe strings break On both your shoes And you’re in a hurry— That’s the blues. When you go to buy a candy bar
When I was home de Sunshine seemed like gold. When I was home de Sunshine seemed like gold. Since I come up North de
Night funeral In Harlem: Where did they get Them two fine cars? Insurance man, he did not pay—
I am God— Without one friend, Alone in my purity World without end. Below me young lovers
Go home and write a page tonight. And let that page come out of you— Then, it will be true. I wonder if it’s that simple?
The night is beautiful, So the faces of my people. The stars are beautiful, So the eyes of my people. Beautiful, also, is the sun.
We passed their graves: The dead men there, Winners or losers, Did not care. In the dark
I would liken you To a night without stars Were it not for your eyes. I would liken you To a sleep without dreams
The census man, The day he came round, Wanted my name To put it down. I said, Johnson,
I dream a world where man No other man will scorn, Where love will bless the earth And peace its paths adorn I dream a world where all
I live on a park bench. You, Park Avenue. Hell of a distance Between us two. I beg a dime for dinner—
What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run?
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.…
When the old junk man Death Comes to gather up our bodies And toss them into the sack of obl… I wonder if he will find The corpse of a white multi—millio…