We are a polluted forest
being chopped off by
the social pressure of
those around us.

Our branches plead for
a source of water, but
our roots have been dried
by our mindless ideals.

Sunlight is scarce for
our air crisp leaves filled with
pleading cries of distress.

We’ve sacrificed too
much wood
to raise back our
hearts from our fallen sanity.

Being led by the
evil leprechauns
ripping our twig-like nerves
and merging them into a
pattern of
disorder, trouble, and chaos.

Our soil is weak;
devoid of all the proper
nutrition the true dead
have to offer.

Our bark falls at the
touch because of our
weak morals.

Our vines have been broken
off our wood — connected to
the only thing keeping
humanity affirmed.

Insects invade our roots, and
disease rots our control of
the refrain we need for
wanting constant change.

Our mantra switches from
“prosper” to “never satisfied,” and
we watch, day by day, our once
life-filled leaves cascade down to
the rotten ground of lost hope.

The forest is dying because our will
is no longer to sustain its life, but
to change the impossible, the inevitable . . .

Mankind . . .