Hughes

His hand, which had written and perished Long before I was bornGave me the mother that I never had,The encouragement that I never knew.He became my father, guide in writing,in life.I had run up the stairs, which were to beget me success,Stepped over splinters and tacks Only to tripWhere there was no light,At a dead end with no hope.My fictitious, but cognitivelyEver- present mother screamed,“Don’t fall now!”I straightened myself back upAfter my dream deferred exploded Into a teary dissatisfied mess.My recovery was due to his wisdom left on a pageFor me to read between the lineswhat had a crystal’s transparency, Reflecting the sun andBlaring in my face. Lines from whichI was taught of ancient greatness, of the riversThat have spilled and spill through my veins,Yet survived.Rejoicing, I flung my arms wide,Ecstatic because the binds That had attempted to keep me fromExpressing my dark-skinned self Without fear or shame had been broken!a poem by Nakeysha in honor of my favorite poet Langston Hughes.