The Story Behind “Downfall”

Every once in a while, I write something that doesn’t feel like it was crafted — it feels like it was extracted.

“Downfall” was one of those pieces.

[Downfall

They say I’ve changed a lot—but I say, a lot has changed me.

When the foundations of trust finally collapse, hope no longer becomes valuable.

Now I take what is destined to be mine—I will win.

Before you point a finger at me, wash the blood dripping from your own hands first.

And choose carefully who you place your faith in, salt and sugar look the same.

You celebrate your happy endings, barring the doors behind you.

Sometimes the smartest move is to play dumb.

Because the real fool is the one who thinks they’re fooling you.

And when I finally smiled again, it wasn’t from happiness, it was from strength.

Because after everything, I am what remains: the consequence of your blind faith.

And my downfall will become your undoing.

Jeremy Faivre]

It didn’t come from inspiration or aesthetics.

It came from pressure. From disillusionment. From outgrowing something that once defined me.

From realizing that sometimes the thing you trusted the most is the thing that quietly breaks you.

For some time, people told me I’d changed.

And maybe they were right.

But what they didn’t see was why.

Growth doesn’t happen in a vacuum.

You don’t wake up one day different for no reason.

Sometimes change is survival.

Sometimes change is what happens when the foundations you built your life on finally crack beneath you.

That’s where the opening line came from:

They say I’ve changed a lot—but I say, a lot has changed me.

It’s not rebellion.

It’s cause and effect.

This poem is largely about leaving a religious environment that didn’t feel like home anymore.

The politics.

The hypocrisy.

The quiet gatekeeping.

The way communities preach love but still subtly decide who belongs and who doesn’t.

Especially if you don’t fit the mold.

If you’re single.

Different.

Too honest.

Too outspoken.

Too questioning.

Too much.

Or not enough.

There’s this unspoken formula: family, spouse, kids, perfect smiles.

And if you don’t have that, you’re treated like you’re unfinished.

Like you’re failing some invisible test.

That feeling shaped this line:

You celebrate your happy endings, barring the doors behind you.

It’s not anger — it’s observation.

Watching people celebrate their blessings while quietly locking the doors so others can’t follow.

But “Downfall” isn’t meant to be a victim story.

It’s not “look what they did to me.”

It’s more like:

“You tried to break me — and you accidentally made me stronger.”

That’s why the tone shifts halfway through.

There’s less hurt and more resolve.

And when I finally smiled again, it wasn’t from happiness, it was from strength.

That line matters to me a lot.

Because strength isn’t loud.

It isn’t revenge.

It’s quiet.

It’s the moment you realize you don’t need permission anymore.

By the end, the poem becomes less about them and more about identity.

After everything falls apart, what’s left?

Not the version of me they wanted.

Not the version that fit neatly into their system.

Just… me.

Because after everything, I am what remains: the consequence of your blind faith.

That line isn’t bitterness.

It’s accountability.

If you try to control people, shame people, box people in — don’t be surprised when they walk away stronger and harder to contain.

You don’t get to shape someone and then complain about the shape they become.

The title “Downfall” is intentionally ironic.

Because what looks like a downfall from the outside is sometimes freedom.

Sometimes losing everything you thought you needed is exactly how you find out who you really are.

And sometimes your “fall” is the moment you finally stop kneeling.

Anyway — this one’s personal.

Probably one of the most honest pieces I’ve written in a while.

Outgrowing something doesn’t make you broken.

Sometimes it just means you finally chose yourself.

– Jeremy