A Letter to Myself

Dear Self,

I wonder if Ol’ Mother Earth

Grows weary of us on her girth,

Depleting resources each day

To insure our short lives are okay.

Or are we so much more than that?

Are we Gods, rearranging our flat?

Can we buy up the deed to this ball;

Own a piece with a fence or a wall?

No, we are Earth.

We’re billions of Earth’s eyes and ears

And noses and tongues, it appears,

For did we not spring from her mud?

Do we not hold her magma as blood?

For the Earth wants to taste and to see,

And to smell and to hear, just like me,

So she fashioned extensions with senses,

And to do that incurred some expenses.

There are no regrets.

There are no excuses she gives,

For at last she can see where she lives,

And there’s music and flowers and food,

And there’s romance when she’s in the mood.

No, humans are not like some pest

That you can’t seem to shake from the nest.

We upgraded the world with our birth,

So have a nice day.

Signed,

The Earth

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