Lament Of The Cookies

We are born through ineloquent and
Agonising torture.
Hit and torn, yowling,
In even your evil, laughing, Mad-eyed childrens' hands;
Flattened and suffocated,
Chilled and burnt
For your sadistic pleasure.
A light pastime,
Malicious hobby
For you
Caring nothing for your cruelty.
We exist, as if in silent, anchoring penance,
Only momentarily resting
To be broken and beaten again
By your ruthless, gleaming teeth.
You wrap us in rainbowed colours
Knowing others' similar lust and want
On viewing our destroyed bodies,
Scarred and burnt
On your black racks.
You impose a short life on us;
One of agony, fear and grief.
Yet,
You forget out silent souls
Gathering in 21 gram batches
To adhere to your thighs and your stomach
And thicken your chins.
We shall laugh last in our acid purgatory
As you weep at increased numbers
On emotionless scales.