We are become a horde.
We are too many.
We are demons,
Legion,
A curse on this planet.
This world cannot sustain
The weight of us.
Nothing can withstand us.
Our sheer numbers
Overwhelm everything, everywhere.
All are crushed by our feet,
Sixteen billion soles,
Trampling over all the world
And all that’s in it.
Nothing stands in our way.
We cannot even stop
Ourselves.
We are the problem.
We know it’s us,
But none of us,
Not one of us,
Knows how to stop our seed
From being spread
Like pernicious weeds
That choke all things to death.
The holy men
Since ancient times
Have urged us all
To make more of ourselves.
A dirty trick.
Make more of us
Than heathen men
Whoever they may be
And we will win
Through weight of numbers
And god will let you in.
The heathen men
Heard much the same,
And the human race
Began.
We need to make not more but less
We ought to pray for doom.
Come friendly germs
And fall on us
Please let it happen soon.
It won’t.
We won’t stop.
We’ll leave it to some other,
Or put it off,
Leave it to the future,
To wheneverland.
Like Neverland, a fiction.
The eco-warriors
Fight the good fight
But it’s a war they cannot win
The only solution
Is utter destruction
Of all our kith and kin.
I give up.
The urge to procreate
The will to make life
Is the thing that will kill us all
In the end.
Writing Me Up 
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