Poetry by Mel Black

How Many More?
             By Mel Black

For how long do we have to endure this torture and pain
Before we meet our executioner and end,
Either stunned or murdered by gas.
Things you used to do to each other,
Now you’re doing them to us
To satisfy your big greed,
To fill your wallet or your stomach.

You decide our value,
For how long we get to live,
And what we go through.
Hell, that is what it is.
Every single day,
Every second of our lives.
We cannot move,
We cannot see the sunlight,
Or feel fresh grass underneath our feet.
We cannot do anything and have to face
All the misery; what is done to us.
Hidden, in secret.
And we are sick.
Ill, drained, mentally deranged,
Already dead inside.
But nobody hears our screams
And we start to wonder;
Even if you did,
Would it even matter?

There is no hope,
We were born into this world to die.
And because of what you do to us
We have never been happy
For a moment in our lives.

But when we go to our final place,
And hear our family and friends yelp
We realize we still want to live.
We want to know what it’s like
Being free.

And so we fight as best as we can.
But you are stronger
And you show us no mercy.
All we get is more violence,
More pain.
Soon it’ll be over.
Soon our suffering will end.

We should find peace in our last moment
But all we see is crimson red.
All we smell is fear
And many of us are crying,
In silence. Unseen.

We don’t know why you are doing this to us
For we have done nothing to you.
It is just the wrong body we were born in.
If we were born as dogs
Cats, horses, or even as hamsters,
You’d love us, you’d give us a home.
But we are cows,
And ducks.
And you won’t welcome us into your arms,
No, you won’t come and save us,
All you care about is our flesh.
The second we were born you were lusting for it,
And so you raise us with cudgels and fists.
We are nothing but a product to you,
Something with a best-murder-day,
According to your palate taste.

And for what?
For your next ham or bacon,
A hamburger patty,
A steak or some mince?
Are your tastebuds so much more
Important than our lives?
Have you got no kindness at all?

We are the voiceless.
But we will cry,
In vain. Here we will die.
Millions before us. Millions
After us. Will it never end?
How many more?
If we were dogs
You’d call it cruelty
If we were humans
You’d call it

- Mel Black is an aspiring writer, and currently a graduate student in Creative Writing at Leeds Trinity University. Her poem ‘Mother’s Call’ was published in the Poet’s Choice ‘Global Warming’ anthology, and her story ‘You Were Never Really There’ in Free Flash Fiction. To find more of her works, go to https://writermelblack.com/ and Twitter: @thisismelblack.

Copyright©2021 by Mel Black. All Rights Reserved.