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.
