Sadness what 2

every single thing around me breathe stories.
Stories of poverty, nonchalant labour, of hope.
And I realise that everything I own, I have, I wear-
ever,
Were made by stories of hunger, thirst, and mortal need
That every thing that lay claim to my happiness
Talks naught of happiness.

I am mere partner in this injustitude
So much so
that I want to kill myself
to not be a part.

And yet, when will humanity realise?
Rage, rage, against the dying of the light. Rage.