Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . .
How did it go?
How did it go?

Democracy will not come
Today, this year
   Nor ever
Through compromise and fear.

I have as much right
As the other fellow has
  To stand
On my two feet
And own the land.

I tire so of hearing people say,
Let things take their course.
Tomorrow is another day.
I do not need my freedom when I'm dead.
I cannot live on tomorrow's bread.

      Freedom
      Is a strong seed
      Planted
      In a great need.

      I live here, too.
      I want freedom
      Just as you.

I would liken you
To a night without stars
Were it not for your eyes.
I would liken you
To a sleep without dreams
Were it not for your songs.

Want you to spend the night with me
While we are still young and have the chance
To enjoy eachother, I just need you,
No useless emotions or insincere romance.

All I long for; your skin against mine,
Found everything I was looking for
In your embrace, in your kiss,
Promise I won't ask for more.

I do not know what it is you do
To bring my smile each day,
I love it. I find myself
Wondering how long you are going to stay.

I know you shouldn't be on my mind,
What else do I have to think about?
That will not bring me down when it's late at night
And stars are starting to come out.

Think feelings are beginning to bulge,
We both agreed not to cross that line,
I am afraid of getting too attatched
Because I'm certain you will never be  mine.

The instructor said,

    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?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:

It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me--we two--you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me--who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records--Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?

Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white--
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me--
although you're older--and white--
and somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B.

"just breathe," they tell you. but no one understands that you can't breathe. your chest has an invisible weight stopping you from taking a breath. you try but it makes it harder. you close your eyes and see all of the thoughts that you hear in your head. you've been like this for so long. "don't worry," they say. but they don't understand that you can do nothing but worry. you can only drown in your own thoughts, unable to swim yourself to safety. your mind is cluttered with "what if's" and, "remember this?" no matter what you do, or how hard you try, you are trapped in this nightmare. the nightmare of your own thoughts. this is is anxiety.
p.m.b. 1:34 am