we are pigs.
i live on the farm, in the pigsty. with the other pigs. and the pigs smell and they are rude. and their voices are raised every second of the day. they yell and scream and we end up crying, we all end up crying.
because in the pigsty, no one is happy.
we ask when we will move, we ask when things will be better, we ask when things will be clean, we ask when we will be happy. because all the pigs say they're happy, but no, no. we all want to be happy, clean, and better. but we are pigs.
utterly disgusting pigs.
i am a pig, they are pigs. and we all live unhappily in the pigsty of our nightmares. i ask when we will move, and they don't have an answer. and i ask when i will be happy.
i don't have an answer.
[r.k.]
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head mess | poetry
Poetryin which i believe i fall into, through, and out of love. dedicated to the butterfly who trapped me before i could trap it. [volume i] [poetry and prose] [2016-2017]
