#AmericanWriters
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?
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…
I catch the pattern Of your silence Before you speak I do not need To hear a word.
She, In the dark, Found light Brighter than many ever see. She,
The census man, The day he came round, Wanted my name To put it down. I said, Johnson,
I know I am The Negro Problem Being wined and dined, Answering the usual questions That come to white mind
The rent man knocked. He said, Howdy—do? I said, What Can I do for you? He said, You know
How still, How strangely still The water is today, It is not good For water
It’s such a Bore Being always Poor.
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 take my dreams and make of them… and a round fountain with a beauti… And a song with a broken heart and… Do you understand my dreams? Sometimes you say you do,
When you turn the corner And you run into yourself Then you know that you have turned All the corners that are left
Harlem Sent him home in a long box— Too dead To know why:
I work all day, Said Simple John, Myself a house to buy. I work all day, Said Simple John,
'Me an’ ma baby’s Got two mo’ ways, Two mo’ ways to do de Charleston!… Da, da, Da, da, da!