There's A Certain Amount Of Traveling In

Hang Yourself, Poet, In Your Own Words. Otherwise, You Are Dead.

Love Is A Naked Shadow, On A Gnarled And Naked Tree.

What Happens To A Dream Deferred? Does It Dry Up Like A Raisin In The Sun? Or Fester Like A Sore-- And Then Run? Does It Stink Like Rotten Meat? Or Crust And Sugar Over-- Like A Syrupy Sweet? Maybe It Just Sags Like A Heavy Load. Or Does It Explode?

Gather Quickly Out Of Darkness All The Songs You Know And Throw Them At The Sun Before They Melt Like Snow.

If The Government Can Set Aside Some Spot For A Elk To Be A Elk Without Being Bothered, Or A Buffalo To Be A Buffalo Without Being Shot Down, There Ought To Be Some Place Where A Negro Can Be A Negro Without Being Jim Crowed.