Someone makes a wish every time the clock reads 11:11, hoping that one day all of them will come true and bring real happiness and contentment. The speaker is honest about how that feels right now, though. The wishes seem useless, and no matter how many get made, nothing changes. Everything stays exactly the same.
What makes the poem touching is its last two lines. Just when it seems to settle into disappointment, the speaker admits that the hope is still there. It hasn't gone away, even after so much waiting.
The mood is quiet, tired, and a little sad, but not hopeless. The short lines and plain wording sound like someone speaking softly to themselves, caught between doubt and a stubborn wish for something better. The poem suggests that the habit of wishing may matter less than the hope behind it, which keeps going even when the speaker has stopped believing it will work.