It kills me that we blame ourselves
And praise the world that made us,
Kills me that we instruct and punish
Each other to praise the world that made us.
We make our gods and tell each other
All about great gods we made that made us,
Made us in their images, made the world
Just for us, so how could we be less
Than essential and beloved to this world,
This heartbreakingly lovely world that made
And then ignored us, our parentage
Most evident whenever we feel
That we have to abandon or hurt us.
If we can’t be better than what made us,
That doesn’t mean we must be worse.
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