For Death There Must First Be Life
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For death, obviously there must be life, right? Well, if you actually think about living, really break it down, some things die, without life.
Take, for example, a small, helpless chicken, spending it's entire "life" in a crammed cage. It's beak has been burned off, its feathers rotted off from the filth, it's eyes blinded from the ammonia, it's legs ripped carelessly off as its dragged from a cage, they as well are sometimes raped for the pleasure of the workers.
Now, tell me, do you call that life? It isn't.
So, here are some poems, a collection I call A Death in the Factory to honor those who were mistreated, abused, raped, mutilated, and killed, all for the pleasures of the human kind. Now, take a seat, an enjoy your dinner, your lunch, your breakfast, you think that is an egg, well I see it as a reason for all those deaths. The chicken being the victim, and you, the people, the murderers. You think it is just egg, please, I dare you to tell me again.
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