Purpose.

What is the purpose of life?
Why do we wander the earth?
What is the point of poverty and suffering?

Sometimes I muse,
Upon these questions,
I have no answers,
Yet am open to suggestions,

Life can be kind,
To some yet not others,
Life can be full of,
Friendship and lovers,

But life can be cruel,
Spiteful, unkind,
Life can be dangerous,
With happiness hard to find,

Kids that go without,
Food or drink,
Their lives hang,
In the balance on the brink,

No shelter,
No home,
No bedroom,
To call their own,

They are born,
Into a mess,
That serves no purpose,
Only distress,

What about the people,
Who are terminally ill,
Nothing to fix them,
Not a plaster not a pill,

The poor people,
With not a dime,
Starving thirsty,
All the time,

Living conditions,
Are wherever they lay their head,
What's their purpose in life,
When they sleep where they tread?

I am extremely lucky,
That I have a roof, a home,
Some people don't have luxuries,
Like a mobile phone,

Orphans have no families,
I have that too,
The homeless have no home,
I have one do you?

Yet we moan about traffic,
Queues and delays,
We moan about the buffering,
When YouTube plays,

We moan that we can't,
Be bothered to cook,
Not only do we have paper copies,
But we have iBooks,

Some people don't have anything,
Other than a voice,
Us western civilisation'ers problem is,
We are far too spoiled for choice.

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This poem was inspired after I watched a documentary on bbc2 last night about a London cabby that learnt to be a cabby in Mumbai. The living conditions for some was dire and for others they didn't have the luxury of living conditions, they lived under a motorway flyover. She had kids and stated when she couldn't afford food that day they'd just sleep. So very very sad.
The cabbies over there are lucky if they earn the equivalent of our £10 per day working from 7am till 12am a 17hour day for £10measly pound.
And we moan, kinda puts things into perspective.