Saturday

so after our sorta punked-out Friday night, I give you a poem and some sexy, sexy Muse (see below post) courtesy of Modern Music.

one of my favorite poems:

Langston Hughes' 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?