You laugh at them. You point your finger and call them a fool. Their silence amuses you, their gentleness becomes your joke, and the crowd joins your laughter as if kindness were weakness. It feels enjoyable today, sweet on your tongue like careless victory. Their patience becomes your stage, their humility your entertainment. But time is a quiet witness. It watches without speaking, It writes its lessons slowly in the turning pages of life. A day will come When laughter turns into tears. The echoes of your mockery will return to your own ears like thunder across an empty sky. Situations will arise without warning, storms without hands to beat you Yet heavy enough to break your pride. Pain will arrive quietly, And you will feel the trembling of a heart that once laughed too loudly. And that fool, that funny person you once mocked, may stand in the distance, not laughing, but witnessing your tears, your shaking voice, Your falling ego. For life has a patient way of bending the tallest p...
After all these years of breaking quietly,
of carrying pain like a second name
No one has bothered to pronounce me right
I walk through a world
that sharpens its edges on my skin,
asking me to be softer, stronger, smaller—
anything but myself.
Every mirror asks a question
I don’t know how to answer.
I am made of scars
that never learned how to fade,
of nights that stretched too long,
of mornings that arrived without mercy.
I survived them all,
Though survival feels like a language
I’m still learning to speak.
I search for myself
in borrowed smiles,
in half-remembered dreams,
in the silence between my thoughts.
Am I the pain that shaped me?
Am I the hope that refuses to die?
Am I lost?
Am I simply unclaimed?
The world is loud with cruelty,
with hands that take
before they learn how to hold.
I stand in the middle of it,
unsure where I belong,
unsure if belonging
is something people like me are allowed.
Still, beneath the confusion,
something breathes.
A fragile, stubborn truth
that whispers when I am quiet:
I am more than what hurt me.
I am becoming,
even when I don’t know into what.
So what am I?
I am a question still unfolding,
a soul learning its own shape
in a world that tried to erase it.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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