The Trees

We throw beer bottles at doors,
hoping that we can find a remedy for being human.

We inject ourselves with poisons,
longing that they can make us whole.

We label the broken parts of our anatomy,
with the thought that we can separate.

We spit words with vehemence,
knowing that they will destroy us.

We ruin and plunder,
in the name of progress.

We have forgotten what humanity is.

(forgotten the dew of the early morning grass,
or the scent of her breath as dawn creaks)

We consider ourselves whole,
but yet decorate ourselves as broken tapestry.

(adorned with the silence of our own mourning,
as we trap ourselves in words we can't escape)

The process of humanity,
is to abstain from progress.