It wasn’t real, that connection you held up like something rare. It was only your restless emptiness reaching outward, never inward where truth lived. There was something in you, a rare kind of wrongness, not loud, but steady, growing in the quiet corners You refused to clean. Your habits sank deep, roots of neglect and excuse, feeding on your comfort, tightening around any chance of becoming better. Inside your chest, something lingered, not wounded, but slowly rotting from everything you chose not to face. Your words carried weight, but not wisdom, dirty with judgment, falling on others as if they owed you effort You would never give yourself. You dreamed wildly, expected greatly, Yet moved nowhere. Laziness sat in you like spring, fresh, alive, growing stronger each day You chose not to change. And so you became a tree, Not shaped by storms, but by stillness. Not broken, but unused. A tree that stands alone, roots deep in wasted time, branches stretched with empty wants, leaves gree...
Horrible things might happen, because of the people around you— words like stones in their mouths, thrown without care for where they land. Do not let irritation find a home in your chest. This, too, is part of living, a chapter written by fate with ink that tests your patience. When they speak badly of you, choose distance over defense. Silence can be a shelter, avoid them for the sake of your sanity, for the calm your spirit deserves. If they blame you for every shadow, every crack they refuse to fix, do not stay and bleed explanations. Walk away. Peace is not cowardice. One day— quiet, unannounced— The truth will rise on its own, untouched by anger, undeniable as light. © 2025 Gloria Penelope