White Cracker

I know crackers have no excuse for suffering.
And I am not saying I do. 
But privilege comes with a price,
White as ash I’m familiar with the concept you see—
Us crackers are the little sticks of wheat you bake
In your smoldering societal ovens of hypocrisy
See—
We are what you call, kneaded into conformity,
See—
We are the ones you pound into little sheats,
So genetically engineered we crumble
Into flakes between your fingertips,
Synthetically salted,
See—
Or disintegrate in your soup,
Or accompany your tea,
Thats me. 
Your cracker.

But don't think we ever experience sadness,
We don’t, because ovens are too hot for tears,
And there is no room to breathe 
In a sealed plastic bag of saltines,
We’ve seen you cry, you rainbow people
But ghostly flesh like ours
Has no place in the land of the living,
And to live (I suppose) is to feel,
And to feel is to suffer.
But don’t expect me to know any of that,
I’m only a white cracker.