The sun rises only to mock the dying.
Another day of the same, another breath drawn out of spite.
The streets hum with hollow laughter,
people moving like insects—feeding, mating, dying, repeating.
There is no meaning, only motion.
No purpose, only persistence.
Life is a wound that never clots,
a cruel game where survival is not victory,
just endurance through pain that refuses to end.
In this world, kindness rots fast.
Goodness is punished.
Hope is a parasite that eats its host.
Faith is a lie told by those too afraid to face the void.
Every church is a cage, every prayer an echo bouncing off an empty sky.
God is a rumor spread by the desperate,
a name whispered by the lost so they don’t hear themselves scream.
Children are born already broken,
tiny offerings to a machine that grinds them into dust.
Their laughter fades into debt and decay,
their dreams into cubicles and pills.
Love becomes another addiction,
sex a distraction from the screaming silence that follows.
Marriage is a transaction, a slow trade of dignity for routine.
And death, the only honest thing left,
hides behind white walls and morphine drips,
pretending to be peace while the body forgets how to breathe.
Fuck life.
It never asked if you wanted it.
It threw you into flesh and chaos,
taught you hunger, pain, and guilt,
then called it growth.
It gave you consciousness just to let you watch yourself decay.
It gave you a soul only to prove how easily it can be broken.
The earth keeps spinning, indifferent.
War spreads like wildfire.
Children starve while kings dine on fear.
The rich build towers to touch the clouds,
but the ground below is soaked with blood and lies.
The poor are told to pray harder,
to work longer,
to die quietly.
The system feeds on corpses dressed in uniforms and smiles.
The flag waves over graves and calls it freedom.
Every heartbeat is a countdown.
Every memory another weight.
The mirror does not lie; it just grows tired of reflecting rot.
There’s no redemption here,
no happy ending waiting past the suffering.
Only more suffering.
Only more noise.
Only more life.
The poets say there’s beauty in pain.
They’ve never drowned in it.
They’ve never begged the night to end
or whispered promises to the barrel of a gun.
They’ve never stared at a ceiling at 3 a.m.,
wondering why the world keeps dragging them forward
when all they want is stillness.
Even death denies mercy.
It makes you wait in line while the lucky ones get their turn.
I watch the world burn through screens and headlines.
Murderers are praised as saviors,
and saints are crucified for sport.
Lies are the new gospel,
truth a relic buried beneath propaganda.
Humanity calls itself civilized while devouring its own.
Every smile hides a blade.
Every promise bleeds.
Fuck existence.
It’s a cruel joke with no punchline.
It’s the endless cycle of want and waste,
the cosmic accident too proud to die quietly.
We are ghosts pretending to be real,
machines made of skin and grief.
We bleed meaning into the dirt just to convince ourselves we matter.
But the stars don’t care.
They never did.
They’ll burn long after we’ve rotted,
their light mocking the ashes that once called themselves alive.
Still, we wake up.
Still, we breathe.
Still, we endure this theater of decay.
Not because we want to,
but because even oblivion refuses to claim us yet.
The cruelest truth of all—
we live, not out of hope,
but out of spite.
And spite, in this rotten world,
is the only honest god left.