I Can’t Do Fake
by Christopher Sopher
December 16, 2025
Act I: I Can’t Do Fake
It flashes like a red light in my mind—
a glitch in the air,
static crackling beneath polished smiles.
A warning.
A hollow sound in a crowded room.
I know it when I feel it.
I see it before it breathes.
Fake.
It presses close with gifts wrapped in lies,
currency made of favors and strings.
I’ve seen it before—
in a hat handed to me,
in a fistful of money offered like a bribe
for my silence, for my submission.
I didn’t take it.
I won’t take it.
I can’t do fake.
It’s a stain that sinks too deep,
an empty well you fall into forever.
It smells like rot beneath roses.
It cuts like a dull knife—slow and dirty.
I can’t pretend. I won’t.
Because I’m wide awake.
I live in the cracks between lies,
in the space where truth hums like wire.
The weight of it pulls me down,
but I stand—unshaken—because I know
the ground is real beneath my feet.
But it’s lonely out here.
So aware, I see too much.
I watch them live behind masks—
not even realizing the mask has grown roots.
I see how shadows move through the world,
draped in illusion, wrapped in distraction.
And yet they keep walking.
Fake smiles. Fake truths.
Fake lives.
Sometimes it scares me—
to know how deeply they sleep.
To watch a world that moves in echoes,
where only a few of us feel the weight of what’s real.
But I can’t give in. Not now. Not ever.
I’ll stand in the fire and hold my ground,
even if it’s just me.
To be aware is a wisdom,
a reminder from the universe.
It cannot be broken.
My conviction screams—
I will never give in.
I will never be like you.
You can’t break me.
These values are etched into my passion,
from the time I was a child—
to the now.
All this because:
I can’t do fake.
Act II: Toxic Mirror
I stood before the storm,
the smug winds howling,
each word a jagged shard,
sharp as ego, brittle as glass.
A seller of shadows,
their voice oozed poison—
belligerent, bloated,
a monument to everything I reject.
I saw them—truly saw them—
a hollow soul with two iPhones
and no essence,
bragging from their beachside throne.
But I gave them a look,
a mirror held to their disease,
and in that glance, I felt the shift—
the crack in their bluster,
the smallest retreat.
No, I would not fall.
Not to their fists of fire
or their condescending venom.
I’ve walked through hotter flames
and come out alive.
I stood, unshaken,
because I know who I am—
aware, whole, untouchable.
And when their storm faded,
I stood taller—
not because I had won,
but because I never lost.
This was my trophy:
to endure,
to rise,
to remain untouched.
Let them sink in their sea of ego.
I am not of their world.
I am enough.
Final Reflection: Silent Ending to the Storm
I watched their storm fade behind me,
leaving only smoke and silence.
I didn’t need the last word.
The silence was enough.
I rose because I stayed true—
unbending, unbroken, whole.
And that was my trophy.
