Tell me, son,
Does it hurt when kneeling at the altar
Of pain and torture
With your own sweat and blood?
Does it hurt to keep consuming
Someone else’s flesh,
Their dreams and hope,
That you’ll have access to this form
Designed to serve you,
Designed to nurture you,
Designed to live at your feet,
Does it hurt to know
They’ll never have it better,
There’s no way out
For this poor soul,
They sign their contracts in the blood you let,
They eat your scraps,
They’re happy with your slaps,
Rather than nothing,
Rather than not being touched,
Rather than being starved,
Rather than be invisible,
They take whatever they can get from you,
You still give them nothing.
Tell me son,
Is this how I taught you to live?
Is this how I share my wealth with you?
Do I let you shiver in the cold,
Walk barefoot through sand and rocks and wet rivers,
Do I spit on my already chewed food before I serve you?
You’re not who I thought you are,
And you say empty words of love and promises.
You’re not what I taught you to be.
I am god.