A person doesn't need to go to college to learn facts. He can get them from books. The value of a liberal arts college education is that it trains the mind to think. That's something you can't learn from textbooks. If a person (has the) ability, a college education helps develop it.
Since 2020, five billion people have become poorer, while the world’s five richest men have more than doubled their fortunes—at a rate of $14 million per hour.
This election is not about Harris, Trump or an individual issue. It’s about what the United States of America represents, for us and the world; how it provides for its citizens and the environment; how we care not only for the living and those who have sacrificed for this country, but also for those who will follow, which one could interpret in line with the Native American-Iroquois law: “In our every deliberation, we must consider the impact of our decisions on the next seven generations.”
This election is not about the next four years or a party; but instead, whether we choose that “all…are created equal…with certain unalienable rights…life, liberty and… happiness,” not merely as pursuit, but experienced (as described in this Emory U. article), or if we want something different for our nation.
Each vote matters, which is why so many have literally sacrificed or died to protect this right for every eligible citizen.
I want you in my home to know you’re not alone in those long-shadowed halls paced by perpetually lost—dementia scouring their last stains of memory
more than safe, I want you to feel safe yet I’m drowning in this deep dank bog of lung
rain sluices from leaves beneath a starless sky as distant shouts urge me to find my way back yet I am beyond lost having unwrapped and dropped their safety rope from my waist so I could reach you
all my cells replicated yours when you were my sole cord to life—for that I worshipped you till the God, Hormones, ascended
as I stumble over elephantine roots, machete through plants so large dinosaurs must still exist on this swampy earth, my lungs match each step's suck of mud, every breath a drowning, yet I won’t release this taut line between us mottled with white ash and blood dark wine nor understand how your Emmental brain won't let you walk or know where you are in time, yet provides lucid wit and end- less memory for the inconsequential
years now since I severed and flung our rope in your flames yet you remain tangled as worry and seared to my palm when I reach for you in wake or in dream unable to rest or breathe for want of you
Thank you to the editors of Melancholy Hyperbole for first publishing this poem in an earlier version.