When your Heart is broken, and
The Words within are unspoken,
When you are Hurting inside,
Is when your emotions have awokened,

When you don't know what to say,
As your skies have turned to gray,
When you are used to bright sunshine,
To brighten up your Sunny day,

When a time you were so Happy,
With a big smile on your face,
Now, you're feeling so down and out,
For, your smile has been erased,

When you would stop and smell the roses,
and Dance around with grace,
Now, you feel so cold and lonely,
Oh, the feeling of disgrace,

When heartbroken you try to cope,
with the feelings build up inside,
Even through this time, there is Hope,
Strength and Courage will be your Guide!!


B.R.
Date: 4/28/2025

Hey Lou—
so beautiful.
I love you.
The world forgets what that means sometimes,
but not me.
Not here.
Not now.
Lately, I sit back
and I wonder—
is there even such a thing
as good and evil?
Or are they just mirrors
for opinions dressed as truth?
People don’t fight for ideas anymore.
They fight because they can,
because someone else said don’t,
because silence feels like losing.
But I remember a different time—
a time of minds that opened galaxies.
Stephen Hawking dreamt in black holes,
Einstein listened for the whisper of atoms.
Our heroes once lit torches,
not screens.
They had questions bigger than their fame.
Now?
We chase faces.
Cases.
Shock over substance.
Talent’s in the back of the line,
waiting behind a viral clip.
We used to talk about evolution,
about meaning,
about everything unseen and still real.
Now we scroll.
Now we sell.
Now we perform.
It’s almost better to be bad
than to be brilliant.
At least bad gets views.
At least bad gets seen.
We move too fast.
Too fast to sit.
Too fast to feel.
Too fast to wonder.
Even to breathe feels like a distraction.
Reflection’s a luxury
this generation can't afford.
I come from a place
they used to call
the Empire State—
where people built dreams
out of steel,
sweat,
and belief.
where artists left proof—
expression etched on city walls
like the first handprints in the caves,
a visual history,
marking time,
influencing it.
I live in a country
where dreams were once possible.
Where greatness wasn’t just myth—
it was motivation.
But now the motive’s
a bank account.
And the dream?
It’s behind a paywall.
Nobody talks about the race,
the planet,
the soul.
They just talk about the numbers.
The hustle.
The next thing.
Always the next thing.
And yet—
in the silence between all that noise,
I still believe
someone out there remembers.
Maybe it's me.
Maybe it’s you.
Maybe it’s us.
Still here.
Still breathing.
Still choosing to care