Can You Hear Me?

Can you hear me?

Not with your ears, not with your screens.

With your soul.

Because I need to talk to you. Really talk to you.

Not tweet. Not post. Not swipe past each other with empty hearts and pretty filters.

But talk—heart to heart. You and me.

Because something’s broken.

Look around. No, really look.

Do you see your mother, weeping quietly at night while the world scrolls past her pain?

Do you see your brother, your sister, fading into statistics and hashtags?

Do you feel the silence between sirens, where the cries of the forgotten echo?

We live in a world where peace is a performance and kindness is currency.

And love—love has become a luxury, rationed out in likes and retweets.

But I’m not here to blame you.

I’m here to reach you.

Because I know you feel it too.

That hollow ache when you watch the news and whisper,

“What’s going on?”

That helpless anger when another life is lost for reasons no heart should ever accept.

That sting of knowing your voice, your truth, is being drowned out by noise.

We were not born to hate.

We were not built to destroy each other with words sharper than knives and judgments louder than bombs.

You—yes, you—you were born to heal.

To hold.

To hug.

To cry with someone whose name you don’t even know but whose pain you understand.

Why is it so hard now?

Why do we fight battles we don’t believe in, chase dreams that don’t belong to us,

and lose ourselves trying to win approval from people who don’t even know our favorite song?

Let’s stop. Just stop.

And breathe.

Together.

Let the rage fall off your shoulders.

Let the fear melt into the earth.

Let the noise fade until all that’s left is you.

And me.

And this truth:

We need to bring love here today.

Not tomorrow.

Not when it’s convenient.

Not after the next election, or the next protest, or the next tragedy.

Now.

Let’s hold space for each other.

Let’s ask real questions and wait for real answers.

Let’s look into each other’s eyes until we see something real.

Because it’s not about being right anymore.

It’s about being whole.

So next time someone cries, don’t tell them to calm down.

Sit with them.

Cry with them.

Feel it.

When someone’s angry, don’t match their volume.

Match their pain.

Ask them,

“What broke you?”

“How can I help you heal?”

Don’t punish them with brutality.

Don’t judge them for their hair, their skin, their beliefs, their grief.

Talk.

Listen.

Love.

This isn’t poetry.

This isn’t politics.

This is a pulse.

A heartbeat.

A call.

Right on, baby.

Not because it’s cool to care,

but because we don’t survive without it.

I’m not asking for the world.

Just for you.

To choose tenderness.

To choose truth.

To choose each other.

Because that is what’s going on.

Or what should be.

If we’re brave enough to feel again.

Can you hear me now?

Can you feel it too?

Let’s bring some lovin’ here today.

Right on.

——

P.S.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. Not just for your time, but for your heart. This piece wasn’t just written with words—it was written with the ache of a world that’s begging to be better. If even one line stirred something in you, hold onto it. Let it remind you to lead with love, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. Because the smallest act of kindness today could be someone’s reason to keep going tomorrow. Let’s not just ask what’s going on—let’s be the answer.