Every day I look in the oblivion to see the black, thick smog cover my branches. I want to scream and shout and cry but not a peep comes out of my dark wood. I see them walk by on there phones, consumed in the everyday necessities of life. If only they would look up. If only they would see that I'm suffering. That soon, I won't be in this life. I would be another mere statistic of the ever decreasing population of nature. I feel sorry for them. I feel sorry that they can't take a minute out of the 24 hour day to look at the beauty of life. Instead, they are consumed in their selfishness of individuality. Soon my leaves will start to fade and turn into dust. My wood will start to pill and peel off my spin. Lastly my roots will shrink into a fraction of what they once were. Will they even notice? Notice that I won't be there to provide shade on those hot summer days? That I won't be there to block the freezing breeze in the crisp winter? Notice that I won't provide a cool, refreshing breeze and those excruciating hot days? Will they? No they won't. Because they are so consumed in the ever expanding wastefulness of the human population. You perceive me as a trashcan to throw your flaming hot cheetos onto my roots, yet you use me as an umbrella and hold small pincis under my gushing leaves on the cool days. What more do you want? I give and give and give but yet all you do is take? You take my self worth layer by layer until there is nothing left except the tree that use to be. You make me feel sorry for myself. Sorry for growing in your city, sorry for being an inconvenience, sorry for being in your way. We'll see whose apologizing when your gasping for air because you've managed to exterminate every last beauty thing about life. Is this the price your willing to pay? Will you apologize then? I wondered if this was worth it all. Worth it to provide comfort to the ones who abuse me. As a child I didn't feel this way. My family was right by my side holding up their branches in unicen. But we didn't know we were waiting in line, slowly to die, until it's our turn.