The Author's Unspoken Words (MGS Writings)

We the people a promise spoken, Carved in ink that challenged time. Yet every generation pauses to ask, If those words still truly shine. Who were the people first imagined? Whose voices echoed in that call? Did every heart stand in the circle, Or were some left beyond the wall? How many years, how many footsteps, How many tears were paid in full, Before the dream of equal standing, Began to outweigh ancient rule. What was the struggle truly seeking, A flag, a nation, liberty's flame? Or the right for every human soul, To live with dignity and name? Can freedom belong to only a few, While others wait outside the gate? Can justice wear a single face, And still be worthy of its weight? If frights are gifts, then whose are they? Can truth be divided by blood or birth? Does the breath that fills one life, Not fill every child upon this earth?   No hand that shaped the stars above, Would measure worth by race or land. The light that rises with each dawn, Falls gently on...

Stepping back to protect my peace while maintaining a principle of love, especially after being deeply hurt, requires significant resilience. Working within a close circle of friends and their families demands immense patience and caution. My former principal at Assumption strictly avoided hiring too many relatives to prevent a clique mentality and workplace awkwardness. Looking back, her perspective was entirely correct.   Standing far apart from colleagues’ crowded space. I wear my silence as my shield. Not because I fear their voices, their presence, But knowing their whispers yield to destroy and gang up. They once betrayed my trust, They turned a simple moment, a tale, untrue. Inventing words I never spoke Painted lies, unjust, covering my body in shame.   They cast me as the villain of the story they created. I became their content to fill their empty spaces. I became their joy because my isolation is their happiness. My presence is their grief. ...

Google Picture  In an old blacksmith's weathered place, Four nails lay still with quiet grace. Upon a wooden plank they stayed,   As time and silence gently played. Three were bent with rusted pride,   Mocking one they stood beside. The fourth was straight, both firm and bright,   Prepared to serve with all its might. They laughed and said, "Why strive each day? Just rest with us and drift away. You work so hard for little gain, While we are free from toil and pain."   At last the carpenter drew near, His practiced hands both firm and clear. He passed the crooked nails aside, For they had lost their strength and pride. The straight nail, shining, caught his eye; He chose it without asking why.   Into the pillar, deep and true, Its faithful heart its purpose knew. The hammer fell with every blow,   Each strike brought pain the nail would know. The bent nails laughed from where they lay, Believing they had wo...