a stain,
upon the tapestry of existence;
us humans are—
a plague upon this earth,
each stride
a devaluation of life,
an erosion of its worth
our cities—
like malignant tumors they rise,
in nature's bones; our names we carve
with careless, bloodied hands
souls fueled by greed and envy;
stripping the world
of all its gifts
yet we are never blessed
we poison seas
with plastic dreams
our forests turned to ash—
building empires,
on broken backs
and calling it progress—what a farce
we preach of peace and unity,
while wars within us rage—
our histories are written,
in blood across each page
hypocritical parasites
marching towards our demise
and calling it living well
ashamed we should be,
of ourselves
and of humanity
because monsters, we all are—
in the shell of a human being
YOU ARE READING
secrets from the lair
Poetryan anthology of bad poetry, but who cares [the lowercase letters all throughout are intentional, they're not grammatical errors]
