I have written my name on the wall of the world
and the wall shrugged.
It did not remember me.
It had bigger names to forget.
Humanity—what a grand costume
for a species that still pisses in its own drinking water
and calls it innovation.
They hold meetings to decide if kindness
should be taxed or abolished.
Everyone claps.
No one listens.
I have loved, oh yes—
like a lunatic with a matchbox heart
lighting myself on fire for her shadow.
But she—
she loved like a banker,
counting feelings like coins,
never giving change.
And still I brought her roses,
because that’s what fools do.
They garden in deserts.
Life came with a pamphlet,
a shiny brochure—
it spoke of joy, purpose, sunsets,
love in the shape of a hand
that reaches for yours in the dark.
But all I got was
a ticking clock,
a dog that barked at nothing,
and bills I never asked for.
I am done.
With handshakes that mean nothing,
with smiles glued on like masks,
with gods who answer only
when the cameras roll.
Let someone else be the optimist.
Let them write the sonnets,
build the bridges,
kiss the glassy-eyed girls
who dream of Instagram fame
and laugh at poetry.
I want no more days.
I’ve hoarded too many already,
like bad coins from forgotten countries.
Each one heavier than the last.
Call it surrender.
Call it peace.
Call it the last honest moment
in a world that fakes orgasms,
forgiveness,
and breakfast conversations.
I have nothing left to betray.
Not even hope.
She left with the others,
slamming the door
with an apology
I never believed.
Broken Author 