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...
Sometimes I look at myself and cry
not from weakness,
but from the quiet shock of survival.
I lived through storms
that were meant to erase me completely.
Setback after setback
stood like walls in my path,
each one whispering, this is the end.
Yet somehow,
I remained.
It is not easy
to be the target of so much negativity,
to carry wounds no one sees,
to smile while healing in silence.
Being a victim is heavy,
but becoming a survivor
is heavier still.
So I thank God
for breath when I felt empty,
for strength when mine was gone,
for life when darkness demanded surrender.
He held me together
When I could not hold myself.
I am here,
Still unbroken,
Still unburied.
And sometimes,
that alone
It's a miracle.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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