Wrong analysis

What should I really write about?
There's no humanity left anywhere
A world of selfish motives and lies,
Acts of play-makers and sacrifice
Riddles proudly exist in every line
And here you are all, living beings
Living through it all, parasites on Love,
The more one gives, the greater your hunger.
What should I write about tonight?
Sitting in my forsaken, muddled space
I think this world doesn't deserve the Sun.
Live with your lies, live through your prime
Forgetting the rest, but your own interest
This world need not be further maligned.
Who am I, who writes every night?
Who will listen to a destitute cry?
Ears do not exist, they have been forbidden forever
For truth is too harsh and even toxic
So you will gladly live with yourself, illiterate
By choice, for to choose you never failed.
I'd rather then succumb to the writer on my desk
Where am I? There's not a part in me that answers that.