Inspired by 20 Little Poetry Projects
Monsoons are a blanket of misunderstanding scarring the shore’s wrists.
Droughts struggle for breath as they suffocate your livelihoods.
Smog so thick it strangles you lifeless, while the mosquitoes feast on your carcinogenic skin.
News forecasts ring in your ears, repeating the lies you refused to hear.
Soaked in a foot of sewage that leaches into your skin and lingers in your nostrils, the hunger of denial gnaws at you until you vomit: the inconvenient truth.
When all you taste is the sound of procrastination, all you can think is that
you should have listened to Al Gore. You should have treated Paris with more gravity.
Droughts don’t struggle, they thrive. Monsoons aren’t misunderstood, they know their purpose.
400 ppm of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere.
Genocide of the human race,
where’s your t-shirts and bracelets now?
Buried with the millions of victims of the real World War.
War on Terror? War on Drugs? War on Poverty?
War on the world.
“We are the plague on the earth,” when will pharaoh tell us to leave?
The day after tomorrow.
The incalculable effects of our self-damnation hail light bulbs on all of the skeptics.
Weepless willows shake their heads in disappointment as our failure surmounts.
Swim with Mickey Mouse and Goofy in Orlando as the ocean’s lovehandles escape from its tight waistband. It is now SeaWorld.
One more recycled water bottle, one less light switch left to blaze. Mic, how could you be so callous?
The world will resonate silence as the survivors feast upon the rotted minds of their loved ones.
The feeble telephone of determination is sent to voicemail.
The Tragedy of the Commons is less of a tragedy and more of a disappointed mother finding a pack of cigarettes:
The eyes of God have said goodnight as they wrap the monsoon blanket tightly over its poisoned parasites.