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Sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be a part of me
Yes, it hurts me- a little bit, a lot a bit
but I understand.
You are yourself and I am myself-
You will do you, I guess I’ll be me

I still wonder though.
Who am I-
Why not,
What’s so wrong with being a part of me,
my life- who I am?
What’s so bad about me?

Is it because I’m not “pretty” enough
or “cool” enough
or good enough to you, to be a part of me? Associated with me?
Because I won’t just make you happy
I will make myself, my family, those I do- and don’t know happy
I will try and make you as well.

What counts as part of me?
Just that I’m nineteen, female, probably bi
born in Geneva, Illinois, raised in South Elgin, Illinois
but also raised in Westford, Massachusetts
both painfully boring towns; quiet, uneventful.
Does that make me as well? Is part of me South Elgin, Westford?
And then what else- what other parts of me?
That can’t be the only part-
So I’m also creative, loud, spontaneous
the part that makes me different
Is it so bad to be that part?

Part. Of. Me.

it sounds like a bad pop song. Is that why you don’t want to be
part of me-
Why is it that sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be a part of me?
Does that mean you won’t speak, look or think about me?
i don’t think that’s possible.
Am I really that much of a stranger?
I’ve known you for quite sometime -
You’ve known me
So can you even not be a part of me?
You can be yourself, as well as
Part of me.

so
yes
You are part of me.
As am I to you,
Just not all of me.
A single piece, maybe, a part,
that shouldn’t be too much to ask.
You can have alone time, but even then that doesn’t mean;
for the time alone, your part of me is gone.
What an illogical statement,

Sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be part of me.
You already are.
I wrote this forever ago as an English assignment, much like *Murdering Icarus* this was a response to another poem called *Theme for English B* by Langston Hughes. Much like lots of poetry it was a self-discovery poem that I add to every time I read it.
Laura Friloux Feb 23
I, too, sing America.
I am not like others, but
They tell me that they
Know my pain.
But they don't.
And I try.
And I fail.
"Tomorrow is a new day," they say.
I'll be damned, they don't
Know my pain.
Nobody'll understand
The daily struggle.
My fears.
My hopes for the future.
Besides,
They'll be afraid of me,
And they have a right to be.
I, too, am America.
Done for an English assignment, posted here because I liked it a lot.
Inspired by Langston Hughes' "I, Too, Sing America."
A T Bockholdt Dec 2017
Right Downtown where
buildings scrape blue skies
and leaves share
their space on the cement,

A vagrant just on the end of 10th
dances wildly capturing high-class sentiments
he throws wide arcs of brown shrouds
and falls with practiced elegance,

the city waltz between trees,
the jazz swing stepped proud,
in harmony with the breeze
your lolling head beats

out an ancient melody.
You belong to the streets.
You creak at the knee.
You smile right at me.

Between the glass pane
you see mine and wink,
you are perfectly framed—
I never do look away.

If you weren’t all
that I am not
so free
would I have seen

the officer turn the street
his rigid blue uniform taut
like his skin and hard
like his eyes?

Officer! I wish I could’ve
screamed, would you
had heard me? Turned a cheek?
Street dancer, city slicker,

You were everything—
Damn, the way he tapped his feet
floating high, mesmerized,
stunned, I just watched

sitting in a leather chair
hair dye dripping blood red,
his cracked lips flare
a smile turned cross

he falls onto the cement
he goes home colored red
he fills the cracks
he is dead.
This is part of collection for a senior portfolio project at CU Denver
Project is intended to represent the stylistic distinctions of great American poets through the imitation of their poetics and/or their subject matter

"Getting a Haircut," is an imitation poem of the poet, Gwendolyn Brooks. Her poetry hones in on the political outcry of her time and uses accessible language to convey narratives of the everyday people. This is a true poem that uses her poetic form of narrative ballads to tell the story of a homeless man shot and killed outside of a salon I was getting a haircut at. Brooks is influenced by Langston Hughes with her rhythm and blues that is seen in the flow of her poetry, sound, and style.
Devin Ortiz Dec 2016
My Master died some time ago

But he left me 'The Ways of White Folks'
And he taught me about 'Democracy'

I recall the 'Dreams' and the 'Dreams Deferred'
And how he sang 'I, Too'

With less than a hundred years between us
His lessons are the same

America for him was brutal
America for me hasn't changed

So with the words he left me,
I craft my trade in his name

With artful thought, I pay my dues
Studying my master, Langston Hughes
Maggie Emmett Nov 2016
I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—

I, too, am America.
For all Americans to consider today!
From The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes, published by Knopf and Vintage Books. Copyright © 1994 by the Estate of Langston Hughes.
Jazzelle Monae Jun 2016
How badly I want to be in that
John Hughes film
I want the cheesy romance
That reeks of tears for fears
And looks like the jock or geek or criminal
That sixteen candle
Sitting on your 944 porche
With the credits rolling up kind of romance
Please leave your notebook at home
Locked up with a vow you don't remeber.
I want that weird science kind of chemistry
A day off involving you
I can look pretty in pink
I can look pretty in Hughes of you.
2016 © Jazzelle Monae
Hao Nguyen Apr 2016
Parody of Langston Hughes's "I, Too, Sing America"

I, too, speak “American”.

I am the yellow father.
They send me to entertain in accents
When company comes,
But I smile,
And learn quick,
And grow smart.

Tomorrow,
I'll preach at the podium
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Listen to his accent,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll hear how articulate I am
And be ashamed--

I, too, speak “American”.
The Dedpoet Dec 2015
I am Mexican:
       Brown and forgotten inbetween,
       Brown like the dirt poor I am.

Iv'e been in hard labor:
      I do what "they" don't want to anymore,
      I am the backbone of the working class.

Iv'e been poor:
      I see no handouts under the pyramid scheme,
      I am the Latin prince of the ghetto.

Iv'e been a hustler:
      Every penny earned off my back
      Makes dollars for "their" pockets.

Iv'e been here:
      I am no wetback,
      I am the American dream,
      Still I must show identification.

I am Mexican:
      Brown and four generations deep
      American, I am still
      The immigrant face.
Langston Hughes 1902-1967
Anwar Francis Oct 2015
I know what happens to a dream deferred.
Rather than dry up
or ooze like a festering sore
it yellows, then browns
then falls slowly to the ground
like leaves in the cold.

Dreams deferred do not smell
of rotten meat, or a syrupy sweet
but of cherry blossoms
and people hurrying down the street
sharing silence or words
with unnoted glances in between.

A dream deferred does not sag
like a heavy load
or even explode.
Instead it spreads
like moonlight.
It takes hold
and does not let go.
A poem inspired by langston hughes and his poem Harlem, and by my own personal experiences.
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