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...
It is that month again,
when love rehearses its entrance
beneath borrowed lights.
February arrives draped in velvet red,
perfumed with roses that bloom on schedule,
while storefront hearts beat
to the rhythm of commerce.
Affection becomes an exhibition.
Promises glitter like temporary gold.
And suddenly,
those who forgot your name in January
remember it in crimson ink.
Love wears many colors now,
red for passion,
pink for softness,
white for innocence,
but rarely the quiet, steady hue
of truth.
Feelings, once buried,
rise like ghosts
just for this appointed day.
Old flames flicker.
Lonely hearts echo louder.
Words long unsent
find their way to trembling screens.
Yet wisdom whispers.
Not every rose carries fragrance.
Not every confession carries weight.
Not every “forever.”
has survived a season.
Some loves appear only on calendars,
arriving with chocolates and rehearsed devotion,
departing before the month turns.
And even food joins the celebration,
tables dressed in sweetness,
desserts shaped like desire,
hunger disguised as romance.
But hunger is not love.
And spectacle is not substance.
So walk gently through this painted month.
Let your heart remain open,
but guarded by clarity.
Not every offered love
wears reality beneath its colors.
Some hearts bloom daily.
Others bloom only
on the fourteenth.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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