A new world has been constructed; a plastic, pretty, perfect place where the sun gleams and screams from the heavens above. The world is practical, and the world is young; It has been created and projected to charm through existence, untouched and unscathed by age or indifference. It was once a verdant emerald, brilliant and liberated. The worldly hum of life and compassion sang from beneath a bellowing lung that grew and flourished with the aid of the sun. Without thought, without a care, the world prospered and shared. It shared its joy, and it shared its flare. But the people grew tired; the people grew scared. So worried that something might tear, and straining to keep the clean air. They created a gap, in their minds, in their maps. From kingdom to shore there was no holding back, there was nothing unclaimed; the earth was a whore; paid for its services till it was no more. In the beginning there were mountains and trees and oceans and seas, but these things were unclean and somewhat obscene. So swiftly they were cut, tweezed, squeezed and heaved into a level, smooth, perfect plane. The oceans drained, and the trees maimed. There left no spot untouched, no spot untamed. The world was a travesty; living in pain, born imperfect. So, they brought us their pain, their fears, their scars. They brought them from near, and they brought them from far. Then all of those shiny, brand new cars. They brought us their Botox and slim fast bars. Slim it, slam it, keep it down; deny resemblance to the barnyard cow. So constantly they rebuilt, reconstructed and renewed; but it was never finished, always something to do. The trees grew back, the water would flow, and the volcanoes erupted into new mountains to tow. The world became a science project; living in pain, born imperfect. It resisted the boundaries now set by its foes, though soon it grew cold, and nothing would grow. And it began to forget, what it was, what it meant. And only regret came after all that; regret for the change it had welcomed so fast. And frantically they continued to build and to tow, until nothing remained, nothing was old. No fun, no play, it had to stay, a perfect shell living in a twisted plastic hell. The world was perfect; living in pain, born imperfect. Helplessly mangled, used up, fed up; drained by its family that had just given up. Giving the dreams of immaculate perfection away to the stars, in dreams for completion, and the end of its scars. But the silent screams prolong, like a faint and lonely song; that resonate within, where it's a mess below the skin. The world is unfinished; living in pain, born imperfect.