The Crumbling Farm

A woman is a mother, 

A vessel, a whore

That’s what they say. 

She lives on the pig farm, 

Where men believe she cannot carry them, 

Only the seed they force upon her. 

That’s what sick men think. 

They call themselves men, 

But they are not. 

At night, 

They come to the pig farm, 

To plant their seed, 

To take their pleasure, 

Against her will. 

The world spins forward, 

But nothing changes. 

Even as it evolves, 

Men like this remain. 

But this time, 

The women rise. 

They grow stronger, 

Willing to give up everything

Even life itself

To crumble the pig farm, 

To free their minds 

From the weight of madness. 

They leave their lovers, 

Their homes, 

For their own sake. 

They shatter the walls of power, 

Together, 

Crushing the farm beneath their feet. 

Some women escape, 

Running hard, 

Chasing freedom. 

Others fall, 

Cut down by men’s weapons, 

Slaughtered like pigs, 

Fed to the swine. 

But the farm remembers their footsteps, their fight

its walls will never stand the same again.

But even in death, 

They dance. 

In heaven, they rejoice, 

For once, 

They did what they wanted. 

And those who escaped, 

They run, 

They hope, 

They dream of freedom. 

Their cries still echo in the wind, warning the next to run faster, fight harder. 

They pray another man will not find them. 

But the fire has already started. 

The farm will burn, someday.

The farm may stand today, but its walls rot from within.

One day, it will be nothing but dust.