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Olivia Daniels Jul 2018
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.
Ghostlizard Mar 2018
The instructor said,


Go home and write
a page tonight
And let that page come out of you—
Then it ill be true


Will it be that easy?
White, weird and sixteen
Growing up in New York City
Where moments flicker by like a dream.
Middle school says life’s ahead
While city commutes blend together.
With brief respites to a Vermont house
Having nature’s bounty out the window.
Though daily, I have only a poor rectangle substitute.


Though I see the world in its immensity,
What I’ve seen are mere trips from my city.
All the while striving to find meaning in this chaos,
But ending up being lost in the sauce.


I enjoy gaming, idle chat and to humorously play
Though mostly with friends who live so far away.
But after I go to see them,
My memories slowly fade away.
They come to see me in my abode.
Concerts, cards and killer jokes
To pass the time between visits,
I listen to a multitude of books.
Something is lost with them on tape,
I'm told.
But convenience is something that it holds
During art classes full of concentration
Where I can get lost in the rhythm of their words
I seem to think I lose touch with conversation
But I think to save it
For those I love the most.
To my friends who are my brothers
I look to them-
To give me hope: For a life to still have meaning.
Some have it inherent,
Others shrivel up without it,
Some find it in responsibility,
But for me,
It is in those people whom I connect with the most.


This is my page for English 6.
I did this in my english class, for an emulation of a poem
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.
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”.
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.
Trevon Haywood Oct 2015
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

Langston Hughes (1902-1967).
I have lots of dreams
unnamed Dec 2014
Dreams by Langston Hughes
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Dreams by Langston Hughes
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Sylvie Barton Nov 2014
he holds a coffee cup in one hand
and a notebook in the other
it has a langston hughes quote on the cover
written in a midnight scrawl

when he paid, he smiled with all his teeth
and he had taken off his dark gloves for long enough
to reveal his calloused fingers
scarred guitar worn fingers

he drinks his coffee black and sits by the window
and Lord, the thought of him breaks me already
"oh my god, look at that face, you look like my next mistake" - Taylor Swift, *Blank Space*

— The End —