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Showing posts with the label #sadpoetry

Mercy, the Stranger #poetry #poetrydaily

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...

The Hunter of Strong Hearts #sadpoetry #freeverse

He walks with a smile that shines like the sun, telling sweet stories to everyone. His words are polished, his manners refined, but hidden intentions sit deep in his mind. He searches for women who stand on their own, who built their dreams from seeds they had sown. The ladies who struggled, who weathered the rain, who carried their burdens through hardship and pain. He praises their courage, their strength and their grace, while quietly plotting to take their safe place. His compliments sparkle, his promises flow, like rivers that seem deep but are shallow below. He says, "You're amazing, the strongest I've seen," yet envies the kingdom she built in between. The independent lady believes in his care, until she discovers there's emptiness there. For he loved the harvest, but never the field. He wanted the treasure, not wounds that had healed. And when she grows weary of carrying two, his affection fades like the morning dew. He leaves without warning, without look...

Thrown Away #sadpoetry #poem-a-day #poetry

They looked at me the way people look at rubbish, useful for a moment, then forgotten at the side of the road. I carried their burdens, held their secrets, gave pieces of my soul to keep their worlds from breaking. But kindness was a currency they spent without repayment. My tears bled in silence, invisible rivers of red flowing beneath a face forced to pretend it was whole. No one saw them. Or perhaps they did, and simply chose not to care. For mercy is a stranger in the hearts of the wicked. Compassion dies quickly where selfishness builds its throne. Their judgments fell like stones, heavy and cold, crushing the very hands that once reached out to help them. I was measured, weighed, and condemned for scars they helped create. When they needed me, I was important. When they finished with me, I became nobody. A discarded name. A forgotten voice. A shadow standing alone at the edge of their celebrations. The cruelest wounds are not carved by enemies, but by those who once called you fr...

I'm Still Breathing #sadpoetry #freeverse #darkpoetry

There is a strange kind of death that does not require a coffin, no cemetery, no black clothes, no grieving family gathered beneath a grey sky. It happens in whispers. It happens when people who once sat beside you begin speaking your name as though it belongs to someone monstrous, someone unworthy of kindness, someone they have already condemned. I have watched it happen. I have stood in rooms where conversations fell silent the moment I entered, felt eyes follow me like shadows, heard fragments of stories that wore my face but carried none of my truth. The hatred within their hearts was never loud enough to announce itself. It arrived disguised as concern, as curiosity, as innocent conversation. "Did you hear?" "I was told..." "They say..." And with every sentence, another piece of me was dragged into the street for public display. They spoke as if I had never given anything. As if my hands had never lifted another soul from their darkest hour. As if my ...