It Stinks Like Rotten Meat

Maybe it’s melodramatic, but only Langston Hughes can capture my feelings right now:

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?

Hell. There’s always next year.

Updated: December 1, 2014 — 1:50 am
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