𝗣𝗼𝗲𝘁 𝗠𝗲 𝗔 𝗣𝗼𝗲𝗺

Toxicity

Breathe in the fumes of our world,

you love the toxicity created by your hands.

Drive through the filth of our roads,

you notice how little you whisper "horses" on your trips.

It's obvious as the sky is always grey,

caused by the weather it is not.

You know well why you don't see as many butterflies compared to your youth.

Your juvenile self loved the outdoors and lived one with earth;

because back then, it was not our world or our roads or our earth:

We were always one with it,

never something we possessed.

You got cocky and treated it like your last girlfriend— as if you owned her,

but as she left you, mother nature will leave you too,

taking your soul with her if she so wishes to.