Your Own Murderer

Sometimes I think I am already dead; but then the pain brings me back to life. Death would not be so painful. You are killing me. I who have cared for you - provided you sustenance. I thought that if I gave you what you asked you would be happy. But you never stopped asking. Your once gentle, curious hands rake coarsely over my body leaving only rends and bruises. You pollute me with your filth; when I try to scream I am suffocated by the sludge. My raging seems to strengthen you. My fires, my floods must be matched by the roaring engine of your ambition. You build towers and monuments glorifying yourself only by tearing me down. You need to conquer me because I am a mystery and you dread the unknown. But as you pull off all my coverings you are only exposing yourself to the elements. You can hit me, burn me, cut me, gut me, but the darkness you toy with will eat you first; I will rejuvenate. I do not need you but you need me. You are killing yourself. Signed, Mother Nature