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...
There are tears
that never fall in public.
Tears that sit behind the eyes
like prisoners too proud to beg for freedom.
Heavy tears.
Rich with exhaustion.
The kind that make the chest ache
before the eyes even burn.
You see them smiling,
laughing loudly at dinner tables,
posting beautiful moments,
wearing confidence like perfume,
but grief is clever.
It knows how to dress well.
Some people cry
without making a sound.
You can hear it
in the pause before they answer,
in the way they stare too long out windows,
in the tired “I’m okay”
that collapses halfway through the sentence.
Oh no,
not them too, you think.
Not the ones who seem untouched by life.
But pain does not care
who has marble floors
or whose name opens doors.
Sometimes the heaviest hearts
belong to people
who were taught never to break.
So they swallow everything.
The pressure.
The loneliness.
The expectation to always shine.
And those hidden tears,
God, they speak.
They speak through sleepless nights.
Through clenched jaws.
Through sudden silence in crowded rooms.
Through the way a person can have everything
except rest.
There is something terrifying
about a human being
who keeps carrying sadness
without ever putting it down.
Eventually it leaks.
In anger.
In distance.
In numbness.
In staring at ceilings at 3 a.m.
wondering why life still feels so unbearably heavy.
Some tears never touch the face
because they drown the soul first.
And maybe that is the saddest thing of all,
how a person can be surrounded by beauty,
luxury, applause, people,
yet secretly whisper to themselves,
“I am so tired.”
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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