Did anyone ever stop to think that maybe mother earth has anxiety?
We say that nature can be cruel and work in mysterious ways, but she is mute. A language is always mysterious to a foreign tongue.
Perhaps my dear mother earth has anxiety.
The earthquakes are outbursts like an autistic child’s, she is begging to be heard.
She screams with thunder and any words she can muster up are nothing but whispers in the wind.
Tsunamis are angry fists slamming down on the dining room table, but no one cares to listen.
She grasps towards the heavens in attempts for everything to stop spinning, so that maybe the chaos within her will depart in one single blow.
No one cared to listen to the mute child in the corner or the room, who has always been in the corner of the room, who has been ignored and forgotten, only acknowledged when something is needed from her.

We were the voices in her head.
Each individual person chipping away at her sanity, and leaving tire tracks in her down trodden forests.
Maybe mother earth had anxiety,
maybe mother earth is dead.