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.