The Creator scribbled out Gaia when she was young;
- she'd never expected what Earth would become.
I don't think she'd imagined the fists being swung
- and I don't believe she'd imagined all of the bombs
- exploding in markets: killing children & moms.
I'm sure she's not calm, looking on- at all she created.
She screams out, "No! No! It needs to be repainted
- with much more pleasant colors and moods!
I never thought my lovey sphere could get so crude;
- should I do nothing: all these species are *******!
I must act prud-ently."
Little does she know, she no longer has authority;
- her creation has began to breathe
- and has the ability to get up and leave.
All She can do now is grieve
- and wish that she never did believe
- she could create something pure
- in a universe so obscure.

Electronics fly with their intrusive little eyes;
- they are the totalitarian government's spies:
- they're the Orwellian technology which I despise.
I, desperately, beg of you: not to believe all their lies
- when they say that they need eyes in the skies
- to ensure the safety & wellbeing of you and I.

The trees are where, it is, I ought to be
-away from all people and from society;
I cannot, possibly, become what it is that she
-wants for me to be. Thus- I, ever so, silently
-head over t'wards those bushes out back
-with a fully stocked sack- or pack with snacks.
I head out t'wards those bushes out back- and hack
-down some brittle trees into a quaint little shack.

Why, oh why, must there be steel scraps in the sky
-whose sole purpose is to spy upon you and I?
It'd cause ancient astronomers to let out a sigh
-as they realize they can't see Mars, nor the stars,
-past all the junk put in place by tyrannical czar's.
Us peasants: we've beared cuts & are left with scars
-upon all o' our liberty, rights, and freedom.
Don't be fooled by whom ever succeeds him
-for it always ends up as, just, more treason.

Yes; you are allowed to be angry
but- it's not my problem- frankly.
It is not mine to sip, this mug of tea,
-worrying about what it is that you see
-when you look on over t'ward me.
I'll be out there by the birch trees
-and you'll, within a year, find glee
-in somebody else. I know- very well
-that this is the situation at hand.
No; I can no longer be your man.
I hope you'll understand
-but know that you won't.

Phillip O'Crowley has fallen down dead
- and I dread- the part that comes next.
Yes! It leaves me feeling quite perplexed;
- thinking it may be my soul- which parishes next.
I begin to build my bush covered, hidden home
-in a lovely, solace place that no one has ever known-
as their own. Yes! It shall be mine, and mine, alone.
A place where I'll grind down stones and bone
- in order to construct my magnificent throne.
Yes! It'll be more immaculate than Cologne- or Rome.
You see- I've just seemed to have outgrown
- this world.

I cannot catch the correct words
- to accurately convey my feelings
- so instead it comes out in bursts
- and, thus, I lie awake most evenings.
I lie awake thinking: "where it all went wrong,"
-and similar things- like, "where do I belong?"
However, I never seem to find an answer;
- or maybe I block it out because I prefer
- to remain a willfully ignorant & naive Monsieur.