What is the ****ing Point
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
What is the fucking point
of any of this?
Of waking up every day
just to bruise your spirit against survival,
to stretch a smile across a skull
that’s learned how to ache politely?
They said adulthood would bring peace—
that growing up meant growing wise.
But it feels more like attrition,
a long, slow surrender
to paperwork, disappointment,
and the soft-spoken tyranny of acceptance.
You start with fire in your chest
and end up negotiating with exhaustion.
You call it growth.
You call it gratitude.
But it’s decay, dressed up in mindfulness.
Every dream has been downsized.
Every prayer outsourced.
Every god I ever begged for meaning
seems to be on lunch break.
We build lives out of compromise—
mortared with regret,
reinforced by denial.
We hang our diplomas and our grief
on the same wall.
We tell ourselves we’re doing fine.
But fine is just the mask
we wear when we’ve forgotten
what joy used to feel like.
Tell me—
what is the lesson here?
That resilience is the prize for suffering?
That faith is the ability
to stay on your knees
long after the miracle has left the room?
Some days, I want to scream at the sky:
Is this the plan?
This aching, grinding choreography
of trying and failing and pretending?
This endless rehearsal for a redemption
that never takes the stage?
And yet—
even in the ruins,
I keep breathing.
Out of spite, maybe.
Or stubborn wonder.
Because if life is just a slow unraveling,
then let me come undone
beautifully,
deliberately,
loud.
Let me rage until the question trembles.
Let me demand an answer
from a universe that doesn’t owe me one.
Maybe that’s the point—
not peace,
not wisdom,
but the furious persistence
to keep asking what the fucking point is
and live like the asking itself
is enough.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe:
