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...

These days, having hope, feeling hopeful, not being bogged down by despair is not the mainstream view. There's a joy in life that I felt in my youth, raised in smalltown rural TN, in a black family deeply embedded in our black church and in a black ecosystem, I never felt for lack. Growing up, I've come to see the troubles of this world. I've become distant from the nest that made my wonder possible. I've learned many things about the plagues of this world and endeavor to live outside of that. My optimism

It's Humanity.

Hope