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...
This feeling, so heavy it bends my breath, sits on my chest like a silent storm no one else can hear. I feel less human here, less than the voice I carry, less than the space I take, like I am fading in a place I once called home. Home… yet it does not hold me. Walls stand, But warmth is missing. The treatment, so sour, like biting into raw lemons, sharp, stinging, lingering long after the moment has passed. Every word, every glance, cuts quietly, not enough to be seen, but enough to be felt deep within. Oh God, Where are You? In this noise of silence, in this crowd where I stand alone, Do you hear me? I feel left out, like a shadow misplaced, like the black sheep in a field that refuses to know me. I try, I wake, I breathe, I endure, holding onto hope like a fragile thread that could break at any moment. Life grows heavier each day, Yet I carry it still, because somewhere in me a whisper refuses to die: Maybe tomorrow will be kinder. Oh God, If you are listening, Find me here, in this...