You wear your pride
like armor fused together
by ignorance—
unwilling to yield,
even as truth cracks beneath your feet.

You don’t see it, do you?
Eyes welded shut by your own certainty,
your pulse syncs
not with justice or wisdom—
only with the echo chamber
of your favorite headlines.

The leader you hate
could cure cancer
and you’d call it a cover-up.
The one you love
could burn the Constitution
and you’d call it cleansing.

You’ve built a faith
not on evidence,
not on hope—
But on the poisoned stem 
of a cynic’s crown.
Just look at you,
hunting for any flame
to prove the world’s on fire—
even if you have to light it yourself.

How miserable must life be?
How much must you crave
the role of a victim—
to dig through ashes
just to say,
“I told you so”?

You ignore the laughter
of children,
the healing,
the quiet victories
of neighbors who still believe
in something besides
the downfall.

I know—
peace doesn’t get clicks.
Unity doesn’t trend.
Hope doesn’t fit
your doom-scrolling gospel.

So here you are—
a prophet of collapse,
preaching to a choir of cynics,
while some of us 
choose to build bridges
from the bricks
you keep throwing.

Wake up!
Not everything’s falling.
However, you might be—
and too proud to notice.