Mercy came knocking once, a pale wanderer draped in dawn, with weary eyes and gentle hands, carrying no sword, only the burden of understanding. But the wicked knew not her face. Their hearts were citadels of stone, where compassion died unnamed and every wound became a weapon. They barred the gates. For mercy is a stranger in the hearts of the wicked. She walks their halls unseen, a ghost among shadows, whispering of forgiveness to ears that worship vengeance. They drink from poisoned wells and call bitterness wisdom. They sharpen grief into blades and wear cruelty like a crown. Where mercy offers a bridge, they build a wall. Where mercy kneels, they strike. And so she leaves quietly, taking her light with her, while darkness settles deeper into chambers already cold. The wicked do not fear mercy, they fear what mercy reveals: that beneath their iron masks, beneath their kingdoms of pride, beneath the ruins they call strength, there lives a trembling truth they dare not face. For merc...
They gave hatred a name,
A nickname sharp as stone,
Spoken in laughter,
As if I was never born whole.
They forgot I had a real name,
One whispered once with care,
Now buried under jokes and smirks,
Lost in the open air.
Laughter rose like a cruel fire,
Hatred dressed as play,
Every word is a quiet push
Pulling my fragile soul away.
Negativity held me by the ankles,
Dragged me through each day,
While dreams grew tired of standing
And hope learned how to sway.
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide,
Just rooms full of broken ties,
Family wounds left open wide,
Conflicts that never learned to die.
I cried in silence,
Tears with no cloth to claim,
No shoulder, no mercy,
Only the echo of shame.
What a shame, this world can be—
To strip a soul of dignity,
To laugh while someone disappears
Slowly, painfully, silently.
Yet still I breathe beneath the weight,
Still carry the truth they tried to erase:
I was never the name they used—
I was a human,
I had a face.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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