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...
I was born for more,
not to shrink into corners of silence,
not to fade beneath the weight of ordinary days,
not to exist as something half-lit,
In a world asking for brilliance.
There is something in me
that refuses to settle,
something restless and awake
even when I try to rest.
I was born for more
than quiet hesitation,
more than doubting my own hands
as if they were not built
to create, to shape, to move.
Inside me lives a voice
that does not whisper smallness,
It calls for expansion,
for color,
for meaning that spills beyond me
into everything I touch.
I was born for more
than watching life pass by
like a distant window I never open.
I was meant to open it,
to step through it,
to let the world feel my presence
without apology.
There is skill in me,
not waiting to be discovered,
but waiting to be unleashed.
Like rivers held too long in stone,
like fire kept too long in still air.
I was born for creation,
for shaping what did not exist before me,
for turning thoughts into form,
and silence into expression
that breathes on its own.
And when I give,
it is not empty giving.
It is overflowing.
It is a part of me
that understands I was never meant
to keep everything inside.
I was born for more
than myself alone.
I was born to lift others
without losing my own light,
to remind them
that something greater
also lives within them.
There is a purpose in me
that does not sleep,
even when I doubt it,
even when the world feels heavy
and unfamiliar.
It waits patiently
beneath every hesitation,
beneath every fear
that tries to make me smaller
than I was created to be.
But I was not born for smallness.
I was born for impact,
quiet or loud,
seen or unseen,
But always real.
And even when I forget,
even when I drift,
something in me remembers:
I was born for more
than surviving days.
I was born to shape them.
I was born to create,
to inspire,
to rise,
and to remind the world
That light does not ask permission
before it shines.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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