Sunday Night Poetry

A Dream Deferred

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?   

                                   — Langston Hughes