As I sit writing this poem,
The chair made by a worker machine supports my weight.
My feet touches the ground and it supports me.
Burning coal factories fire the electricity to the lamp above.
This air I breathe in and out is shared among all.
The water I need flows through all, unevenly.
These clothes I wear were made by factory workers from all around the world,
Most likely trapped in low wage work in order to survive this hierarchical world.
An organized, globalized world, fueled by desires for wealth, fame and power.
Projected through the lens of a prescribed system often called capitalism.
An abstract system that categorizes and divides real life according to
So called laws of demand and supply,
Price and other fancy names that express no meaning at all,
For they are all empty.
Empty of its own inherent existence,
Empty from the only thing that makes them real,