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Some people tried to pull my legs…

ended up pulling my pajamas.

Lucky for them,

I was wearing shorts.

The embarrassment

changed address.

Funny thing is…

I would’ve helped them climb

if they had asked.

Would’ve made space beside me

if they had arrived with honesty

instead of hidden ropes in their sleeves.

But no.

People love shrinking others

to feel taller.

So they threw words,

little traps,

tiny engineered earthquakes beneath my feet.

I didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even feel a pinch.

Tell me,

how far will people go

just to watch someone fall?

And the strange part?

They never leave fingerprints.

The summit is beautiful, yes…

but stealing somebody else’s ladder

doesn’t trap them there.

Skillful people,

grounded people,

always find another route.

But those climbing with cunning,

with slippery hands

and shortcut lungs,

forget one thing:

Going up is one art.

Coming down

is another.

The ones built by hard work

know both directions.

When time twists.

When luck cracks.

When the mountain changes mood.

Because they belong to the ground.

The same ground

where they planted

a rebel flag

with blistered hands.

They know the terrain.

The weather.

The silence between failures.

Shortcuts are rented rooms.

But people who want permanence,

people who want their anchor

inside history,

learn every corner of the map.

Inside out.

Without doubt.