Future

Harlem

By Langston Hughes

 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?

The future we were sold on hasn't come.

The choices we thought we'd be able to make have been pushed aside for more immediate needs and endless distractions

To not be doom and gloom, we have endless potential for our Next Big Thing

It's Humanity.

Hope