Love was never a heartbeat. It was the echo left behind after the heart forgot why it was still beating. It arrived wearing another person's face, its hands stitched together from promises that had already begun to rot. I welcomed it. Not because it was kind, but because loneliness knows how to mistake a wolf for warmth. Every smile it offered cast a longer shadow. Every whispered "forever" fed another ghost sleeping beneath my ribs. The thought of love is a clever liar. It builds cathedrals from broken mirrors, then asks us to kneel before our own reflections, calling the illusion destiny. How eagerly we obey. We water flowers that grow from graves, write poems to people who never truly existed, and embrace memories still unborn. Love watches. Silent. Patient. Like a spider waiting in the center of a web woven from hope. It never forces us inside. It simply lets us believe the silver threads are rays of morning light. By the time we understand, the sky has forgotten our ...
They think your stupidity is on another level,
That you won’t hear the punchline hidden in their smiles,
That jokes are just jokes
Not traps dressed in laughter.
They believe you won’t notice
When eyes meet behind your back,
When laughter bends away from you,
Sharp, deliberate, rehearsed.
This is life in a bizarre world,
Where cruelty wears humor like perfume,
And mockery is passed around
As if it were wit.
Undermining is a daily meal
For those who think they’ve made it,
They feast on comparison,
Drink confidence from another’s doubt.
They play the poor like pieces on a board,
As if destiny were property,
As if lives came with ownership papers
Signed by luck and arrogance.
They speak of success as if they earned the sun,
Forgetting storms shaped them too,
Forgetting how quickly
The ground can shift beneath gold shoes.
Yet life hides its mysteries well.
The quiet outlasts the loud,
The mocked carry maps unseen,
The fooled are often the watchers.
Laugh if you must, strange world,
History keeps better records than pride.
Those you undermine today
Maybe the ones who understand tomorrow best.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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