Harlem, by Langston Hughes

Maybe it’s not my favorite per se, because that would have to be some pretty Frost poem that makes me feel warm and fuzzy.

Harlem sticks with me because it devastates.

It reminds me to follow my dream, and when I find myself starting to make excuses, or justifying my strays, these words pop into my head:

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?