Too Much To Ask

I do not ask for much,
I never have.
But the world in its perverted
And backwards mind
Twisted, perhaps,
By ourselves,
Ruined by our horrors and greed,
Seeks to reward
All, it seems,
But me.

The spoiled little brat
With the well-off parents
Demands to receive
All the world she can see
Luxury and money
And the world delivers.
But I,
Who asks for only
The simplest things,
A good life,
A cottage 
On a farm somewhere,
With a kind husband
And a child to love,
A garden to tend
And perhaps a break
From the horrors of this world.

But, it seems,
That is too much to ask.
Why is asking
For a mansion and a million dollars
And all the riches of the world
More feasible
And honourable to ask
Than a family of my own
To love
And be loved by?
Why is it too much to ask?