ABOUT THE POEM: On 5 December 2025, at 1:30 a.m., about 42-year-old man sits alone in a bare room, staring at the same unblinking evidence he has catalogued for decades: silence where invitations should be, emptiness where money should be, and a face in the mirror that has long stopped pretending to hope. Born in 1984, he once believed talent and effort would be enough. Instead, every door stayed closed, every relationship thinned to nothing, every small risk ended in disproportionate punishment. The world accelerated past him sometime around 1999—when he was fifteen—and never slowed down to see if he was still running behind. Now, twenty-seven years later, the calendar has caught up. The verdict he always suspected has arrived in the form of absolute solitude on what might as well be any other night. There are no dramatic suicides and quiet ones; this is the quiet kind—an internal execution performed with perfect paperwork. The poem is his closing argument to himself: a merciless indictment of fate, of luck, of a universe that never extended even the smallest private kindness. It ends not with a bang or a plea, but with the bitterest apology imaginable—an apology for existing at all.At the age of forty-two,
the proof was always here,
and the verdict is in-signed and sealed.
Evidence:
caught red-handed at 1:30 a.m.,
5 December 2025,
still pretending you are not incapable.
If you were not utterly unrequired,
would the room be this empty?
Would the wallet be this flat?
Would the mirror still refuse to smile back?
Look again.
The world moved on twenty-seven years ago
and never once checked the rear-view.
The truth has been lying naked and dead on the floor for decades.
Your soul is already ash scattered in yesterday’s wind.
What fire do you imagine rising from these cold cinders?
What new outcome do you expect from the patterns you already know?
What does the universe owe a man
it has never once favoured with a single smile meant only for him?
There is nothing left to discover,
nothing left to feel.
You are simply running toward death
in a world that never loved you-
not even a little bit.
Success has a thousand fathers,
a thousand small favours,
a thousand lucky accidents
that kiss the winners on the mouth.
Failure is a bastard with no papers.
My only crime was that I could not win.
That was crime enough.
I was never like other people.
The difference?
There is no difference at all-
the difference of not being any difference at all,
just fate dealing me the only card it ever had.
Sorry. My bad.
