Somewhere out there a newborn baby plays,
Unaware of the fact that eventually our planet will die out.
Unaware of the irreversible damage that arises.

Humans are causing the extinction of the human race.
We don’t realize that we are causing an apocalyptic chain of destruction.
We don’t realize that we are extinguishing the probability of making this corrupted world that we live in better.

Although the citizens of this dying planet are speaking,
Their argument is being flushed out by the want for money that has plagued the minds of many.
Change has been asked for but change has not been made.

Flowers bloom in the cracks of the cobblestone,
their sweet scent swallowing the area.
Attracting onlookers like a moth to a flame.

Pastel petals strewn across the terrain.
A seemingly infinite ocean of colors
waves of flora descending down on me.

Roots span for miles,
pulsating currents weaved into the ground.
Reaching for hope.

Two butterflies fly together.
One of them you,
one of them me.

The two butterflies loved each other,
They’d always been there for one another.
Till one butterfly found a new flower.

Better.
Something I aspire to be.
When the weight of the world comes crashing down upon my shoulders I want to handle the situation better.

I see them become better everyday.
Whether it's their hair or their shoes,
Something is always better.

Better is a plague.
Better makes me feel weak.
Yet I find myself constantly trying to be better.

The world is toxic.
Be better, be beautiful, be perfect.
The words are engraved in my conscious.

Be better.
The words cascade me like cement,
Encasing me in a chrysalis of self hatred.

I must be better.