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...
There is a plant inside my life
That only wakes when rain remembers me.
Its roots know hope by instinct,
they drink quickly,
afraid the sky will change its mind.
But most days,
The desert arrives first.
It stretches across my hours,
cracks my patience open,
teaches thirst in a language
No one wants to learn.
This drought becomes a season—
long, unannounced, unforgiving.
Dreams dry into dust,
words lose their softness,
and even faith walks barefoot
on burning ground.
People suffer quietly here.
Smiles are rationed.
Promises evaporate.
We learn how to survive
on almost nothing
and call it strength.
Then—
rain.
Not loud at first.
Just a whisper on the sand,
a cool truth falling from above.
And the plant rises,
green against all logic,
proving life was never gone,
only waiting.
The desert does not disappear,
But it loosens its grip.
Cracks close a little.
Breath comes easier.
And once again,
We remember:
This season is not forever.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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