The world is dying,
and I feel it in my chest —
a slow, aching collapse
like the Earth itself is weeping
beneath my skin.
I thought we were better.
I thought humanity had a heart.
But all I see now
is hunger without wisdom,
creation without care,
and dreams that bleed.
Do we even feel anymore?
Or have we traded empathy
for empty desires —
watching the world burn
while we chase the next thing?
Everything is crying.
The wind mourns.
The oceans scream.
The animals disappear
one by one,
like forgotten stories
lost to greed.
And I —
I can't unsee it.
Curiosity,
once sacred and pure,
has led the clearest water
to redness.
To ruin.
To silence.
I carry this grief
not as weakness,
but as witness.
Because someone must remember
the way the Earth once sang,
the way innocence once felt,
the way we were meant
to live — not conquer.
I don't want to fall asleep
in this dream of destruction.
I want to wake,
and if I must cry for the world,
I will.
Because maybe
that's where the healing begins.