Ms. Widman High School Creative Writing
What we think sometimes
you don’t know about us
is that we are not lesser beings.
We may not be big shots with opposable thumbs
or mouths to do the talking.
We are hardly the divine arbitrators
of evolution,
nor did we choose to be born with a squeaching snout,
a body colored like a cherry blossom tree
and a tail that curls like a whip.
We may live on a farm way out
there in the countryside, in a pig pen.
But a pen is also a home.
And to not forget that you too live
in captivity. We pigs live for free, no taxes or rent!
We may eat slop but if you had to, you would too.
We may be condemned to an inevitable
porkification, an inmate on death row.
Not all life comes to an end,
like a snowflake in the sun.
And don’t forget: we are self aware.
And the cycle continues.
It’s dark and gruesome.
Eerie flickering white lights
making his knife stand out on the river
of pomegranate juice.
Sat there was a slab
swinging his arm letting the blade meet
the other side.
How disgusting.
Why is there a smile sat on his face?
Not letting one piece go to waste.
What a crumb chaser.
Everyday he feigns for more rare
and more rare
and more rare.
The blood and black stripes.
Maria! Maria! Maria!
how the cries absorb the wall
dismissing letters here and there
STOP!
The broad arrow mark on the wall
how sadness filled the prince like a balloon
drowning in tears.
In the ruby land above Mesopotamia
where the skies show sadness,
the carmine skies turn a shade of charcoal
whiskers pointed up
as if all of Mesopotamia knew
the prince was weeping.