The Misery You Make
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
There are people who were never ruined
by disaster.
No famine.
No war.
No singular moment
where life split them open
and left them bleeding.
They were safe.
Fed.
Given time.
And still—
they curdled.
Because when nothing breaks you from the outside,
you must decide
whether to build something inward
or rot in place.
They chose rot.
Not passively.
Actively.
They mistook comfort for emptiness
and blamed the world
for failing to entertain them.
They mistook entitlement for promise
and resented reality
for not delivering reward without effort.
So they manufactured friction.
They provoked where there was peace.
They bruised where there was trust.
They contaminated rooms
so their own stagnation
would not be so visible.
Misery became their occupation.
A renewable resource.
A narrative engine.
Something to point at
so they would never have to look inward
and see the terrifying absence
of work.
Because self-examination
would have revealed the truth:
nothing was stolen from them.
No future.
No opportunity.
No innocence.
Only time—
wasted by choice.
They could not tolerate that realization.
So they externalized it.
They turned others into receptacles
for their bitterness.
They converted relationships into arenas
where harm could masquerade as personality.
Cruelty became evidence of existence.
And when the damage spread—
when people recoiled,
withdrew,
or broke—
they called it misunderstanding.
They called it fate.
They called it everyone else.
But misery does not arrive uninvited.
It is assembled.
Piece by piece.
Lie by lie.
Refusal by refusal.
It is what happens
when people would rather scorch the ground
than plant anything
that might expose their barrenness.
They are not victims of circumstance.
They are artisans of their own decay—
and everyone they touch
pays the cost
of their refusal
to become more
than what is easiest to be.
Keep My Words Alive
If this poem has stayed with you, you can help keep my words alive or explore more of my work. Every bit of support helps carry the stories forward.
WHERE WORDS MEET MORNING LIGHT
BEGIN EACH DAY WITH SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL
Every morning at 11:11AM, I send a poem — sometimes soft, sometimes devastating, always true.
💚 Subscribe now to read and breathe and feel along with me 💚
Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe:
