If there were only selfish hearts,
no love that stayed when light grew thin,
no hands that held without a cost,
no truth beneath the polished grin—
Then why does grief feel like a wound
when someone leaves or breaks their vow?
Why does betrayal burn so deep
if nothing real was there somehow?
If hunger rules and envy breathes
in every chest and every prayer,
why do we ache to still be seen,
to have one soul that truly cares?
You say:
Erase it all.
One fire. One final sky.
No more anger. No more lies.
But ashes cannot feel relief.
Silence doesn’t heal belief.
An empty world has solved no pain—
it only proves there’s nothing gained.
Maybe love is rare and flawed.
Maybe loyalty can bend.
Maybe faith is cracked and worn.
Maybe people sometimes pretend.
But counterfeit exists, my friend,
because the real thing has a shape.
No one fakes what has no value.
No one guards what has no weight.
So if the world is bruised and loud,
and selfishness is easy to see—
it doesn’t mean that’s all there is.
It might just mean
you’re hungry
for what should be.
