For The Wild

I was born in a world

where dirt is dangerous,

where grass is requested to touch,

and forests

are mostly backgrounds on school laptops.

Where “wild” means out of control —

not free.

Not real.

Not necessary.

Where we talk about the Earth

like it’s a pet

we forgot to feed.

But the wild doesn’t wait.

It doesn’t beg.

It doesn’t check the time.

It grows through concrete

when no one’s looking.

It’s the weed in the crack

you tried to kill —

and it came back.

Twice.

It’s the thunder

that interrupts your playlist.

It’s the sky that forgets

it was meant to behave.

And I think —

I think I miss it.

Even if I’ve never really had it.

We learn the names of animals

from textbooks,

not from their sounds.

We draw trees

with green crayons

but have never climbed one.

We say “save the planet”

like it’s a trending topic.

Like posting a picture of a sunset

counts as activism.

But I’m not here for pretty words.

I’m here because

something inside me

wants to run —

barefoot.

Unapologetic.

And maybe you feel it too.

That small, quiet wildness

still kicking behind your ribs,

tired of being told to calm down.

So don’t.

Don’t calm down.

Don’t shrink.

Don’t wait.

This world doesn’t need

more people acting normal.

It needs people who remember

how to listen

to wind.

To dirt.

To themselves.

This poem is not a protest.

It’s a pulse.

A growl.

A seed cracking open.

This is a reminder

that wild is not a place —

it’s a way of being.

So whatever you do next —

do it loud,

do it real,

do it for the ones with no voice.

Do it

for the wild.