Poetry (words)


Rain runs through the gutters of our concrete existence. Giver of life filling potholes as our fume spewing rages on. Reflective puddles of light mirror skylines of how far we’ve come. How wonderful we are.

A short journey and the rain still falls, droplets cling to foliage like tiny explosions of sustenance. We thrive here, because of here. If there is a map of how to just be, it’s this. Nature invites us, but how rarely we attend with respectful actions.

I don’t understand humanity. If I could be excused I’d close the door to this unsustainable landscape. I’m forced to remain in this machine because “living the dream” is just a phrase invented by society to keep us prisoner. Fact is, we don’t all fit into concrete enclosures. Suburbia is the dream we’ve come to crave, but my nightmares are created there.


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