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...
Poverty claimed my heart
without asking for permission.
It moved in quietly,
then stayed long enough
to feel permanent.
Now I cannot tell
What is good
And what is bad,
Everything feels the same,
flat, muted,
colorless.
Life wears only one shade to me,
and it is neither dark nor bright,
just endless grey.
Hunger no longer frightens me.
It is a language my body understands.
Sorrow no longer surprises me.
It sleeps beside me each night.
I have grown familiar
with empty cupboards
and heavy thoughts.
Poverty has become
my comfort zone.
Its rough edges no longer cut,
They shape me.
Its silence no longer echoes,
It settles.
This is the ground I stand on.
This is the air I breathe.
This is how I live,
between need and endurance,
between wanting and accepting,
between breaking
and somehow continuing.
And yet,
buried deep beneath the numbness,
There is something small
that refuses to die.
A quiet hope.
Not loud.
Not certain.
Just a whisper that maybe,
one day,
a miracle will find its way to me.
Maybe the grey will crack.
Maybe color will return.
Until then,
I survive.
And I wait.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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