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...
Rotten leaves cling to the ground,
once green, now bitter with time,
they crunch beneath honest footsteps,
forgotten by the tree that let them go.
Moulded bread sits in the dark,
softness turned sour,
blue veins spreading where warmth once lived,
a quiet warning no one heeds.
So is a heart that feeds on cruelty—
once capable of kindness,
now hardened by envy and spite,
sharing words that poison more than hunger.
A mean soul walks loudly,
believing sharp tongues are strength,
never noticing how the air recoils,
How doors close without sound.
Time, however, has patience.
Karma does not rush.
It works like rot—
slow, unseen, faithful to truth.
The leaves return to the soil,
The bread is thrown away,
and the heart that chose decay
must sit with what it became.
For nothing foul stays hidden forever;
What we spread, we step on later.
And in the end,
only what nourishes life
is allowed to remain.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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