Free Xpresion

To us who wear our hearts on our sleeves Short or long  We expose our hearts to the elements every day With every hug, every handshake, every fist bump We risk breaking  a bit of our hearts off To us, heartbreak is not an event It is a daily possibility  To us who wear our hearts on our sleeves Short or long  Every touch, every kiss, every glance in our eyes We risk revealing too much as our quickened hearts match the beat of the ones we love In a world where prey is predator, where a house of solace can easily become a house of sorrow, our hearts remain exposed To us who wear our hearts on our sleeves Short or long These suits of pretense we use to hide our vulnerability do not cover the fear in our voice, the lowering of our gaze, the anxiety in our steps, or how deep the rage we can not express is when each passing moment, our hearts are broken by people who have no hearts to wear anymore. To us who wear our hearts on our sleeves Short or long Our broken hearts ar...

  Margaret Mead, the American cultural anthropologist said of change; “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed, citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.” Humanists are few. Humanism is young. The task of helping to shape the future through the lens of our values seems daunting. To borrow from the Christian Bible, “The Harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few”. At the front of the battle to shape society will be humanists and progressives and so we need to have humanists and progressives in every part of society; the change will be shaped by the people, by activists, and by public servants SHAPED BY PEOPLE As individuals, what will our role in this change be? We first have to realize that the change will only work if we create the space for it to thrive. It will start with us, humanists, acknowledging that humanism is not a default, neither are our values obvious to everyone. By admitting this, we will come to understand that ou...

  For the first time in my life, I feel like I am living through one of those historical moments significant enough to catch the eyes of historians. I have always imagined what, for instance, I would do, think, or say, if I was in; Nazi Germany, or post-independent Ghana, or Apartheid South Africa, or Jerusalem in AD 30. I often wonder about characters like Pastor Martin Niemoller, whose poem, First they Came I so frequently quote. Martin initially supported Adolf Hitler and even made some remarks that some scholars considered antisemitic. Or Kwame Nkrumah, first president of Ghana, who was a champion of democracy until he became President for Life. Or Mandela and his role in creating a watered-down liberation for his people; or Gandhi and his racist blind spot; or Jesus and his temper issues. I even contemplated the philosophical view that moral judgments are true or false only relative to some particular standpoint (for instance, that of a culture or a historical period), and wh...

I find, like most creatives, that some of my best ideas present during depressive episodes. I must mention that the best ideas generally come when one is removed from reality, a sort of sabbatical from the mundane. So ideas may come from chemically altered realities such as when one is on recreational drugs. Natural states or conditions may also present such altered reality states that allow the creative juices to flow. One of such natural states is depression. I accidentally realized this when I first started writing poetry. I had read somewhere that writing is therapeutic and I was having difficulty navigating the world as a hormonal 12 year old. Discovering I could pen-down words that ebb and grow, moving the heart through eyes and ears; that was amazing enough. Then I discovered that these words of mine grew darker, more elegant, more visceral and daunting the more depressed I was. My therapy, the outlet of a cornucopia of my emotions, negative as they presented, revealed beautif...

Me and my anxiety are this close, son! We been intimate more closely than my right hand knows the ridges of my penis. We have shared secrets that no lover of mine No mother of mine Even knows. We are so close, we finish each other's ... whisky. My anxiety is like that old friend you lost touch with for years but meet again and it seems like time stood still.  We run through all the old dreadful tropes of loss and despair, reels of film play through me like an endless marathon of failure. My anxiety is like a memory mattress, she hugs me in all the wrong places, bringing back memories of all the stressful thoughts I thought I had misplaced or forgotten.  As a bonus, she comes with a weighted blanket, reminding me that I am not alone; I have her, and that is enough. My anxiety is a boomer or at least considers herself one.  She is easily triggered and doesn't have any concept of nuance.  I mean, she insists that there is no difference betwee...

I am no ordinary people Lonely in a room full of people Tears shed for my lost people I am no ordinary people Yet my heart beats in sync with the people My lungs draw on the breath of the people I am no ordinary people A grain of sand in this ocean of people Rubbed different than any of my people I seek redress for my people The hurts like osmosis is concentrated on one side of my people Will my end reduce the pain of my people? I am not ordinary people And there are millions of us wishing to die for our people. I will not be the first to end it all for my people. For my people is me.