This poem is part of the book Christian Poetry Volume I.
Monday, February 2, 2026
Wednesday, January 28, 2026
The Sower of Storms
A troublemaker and a villain, who goes about with a corrupt mouth … who plots evil with deceit in his heart—he always stirs up conflict. Therefore disaster will overtake him in an instant; he will suddenly be destroyed—without remedy. Proverbs 6:12, 14-15
On the eighth floor of “Da Vinci Design,” Marcelo was an artist. His art, however, was not programming or design, but discord. He was a master of the quiet calamity.
His mouth was rarely overtly wicked. He preferred the subtle poison of insinuation.
“Did you hear what Julia said about your project?” he would whisper to William, knowing that Julia had said nothing at all. He would approach one group, listen to a conversation, and then recount it to another, always with a small, malicious distortion.
His wickedness was in the details, in his body language. He would wink at a colleague at the end of someone else’s presentation, a complicit signal of contempt. He would shuffle his feet with theatrical impatience when a “rival” spoke in a meeting. He would make signs with his fingers, small gestures of mockery that only his initiates understood. In his heart, he devised evil all the time, finding a dark pleasure in starting small fires and watching the chaos.
He went about sowing strife. The marketing team, once united, was now divided into factions that barely spoke to each other. A promising project was sabotaged because Marcelo convinced the programmer that the product manager was trying to steal his credit. Trust, the most valuable currency in any work environment, was in ruins, and he was the counterfeiter.
His motivation was simple: he believed that in an environment of chaos, where everyone was busy defending themselves, his own path to the top would be easier.
The calamity, when it came, was sudden, without warning, and without remedy.
The company implemented a new internal communication system, more transparent and with all conversations archived. Marcelo paid it no mind; he was a master at covering his tracks, at speaking between the lines.
His mistake was underestimating the frustration he himself had created. Two of his victims, William and Julia, whom he had pitted against each other, finally decided to talk. As they compared stories, Marcelo’s web of lies became clear. Instead of a direct confrontation, they did something smarter. They gathered evidence. Ambiguous emails, testimonies from other colleagues who had been poisoned by his words.
They took the dossier, silently, to the HR director.
On a Thursday morning, Marcelo arrived at work, whistling. He had just planted a new seed of discord, insinuating that one colleague’s bonus was larger than another’s. He sat at his desk, prepared his coffee, and was called into the director’s office. He entered, confident, perhaps expecting a promotion.
Inside the room were the director, the head of HR, William, and Julia. On the table, a stack of printouts of his own conversations and emails.
There was no discussion. There was no chance for manipulation. The evidence was irrefutable. He was broken in an instant. The arrogant winking gave way to a shocked pallor. His feet, which he once shuffled with contempt, now seemed nailed to the floor.
He was fired on the spot, escorted by a security guard to his desk to collect his things. The man who lived on whispers was now the center of a heavy, accusing silence. Everyone watched him, not with pity, but with a bitter relief.
As the elevator doors closed, Marcelo realized the terrible truth. He had sown storms for others, believing he would be safe in his shelter. But in the end, the calamity he had so often devised came for him, and there was no salvation, no mending, no remedy for the ruin he had built with his own hands.
(Made with AI)
This story is part of my book Everyday Wisdom
https://books2read.com/u/3knogL
Friday, January 23, 2026
Restart
Life is made of choices, and choices lead us in some ways,
Many times, for good ways, but other times for dark ways.
Some ways lead us to success and complete happiness,
Other ways only lead us to great difficulties and sadness.
Getting out of these ways will not be easy, and have no option,
Because many ways are so tenebrous that they lead us to prison.
We feel arrested, without knowing what to do to get away,
We got desperate, and the hope to smile again went away.
In this phase, the days seem sad, without hope and felicity,
We feel happiness does not exist; it seems only a memory.
That gets us very weak and without the will to try or fight,
We live a defeated feeling, and it seems nothing will change in our lives.
Amid this sad moment, someone comes to help us,
He extends his hand and offers a new path; He is Jesus.
A new path with blessings we could not even imagine.
He pours his water over us, and a river of life is starting.
After receiving the blessings of the Lord, a new stage will start,
We have a new opportunity to restart.
We follow the new and marvelous path drawn by the Lord,
He will always be on our side and lead us through his love.
This poem is part of the book Life Through the Words.
See the book:
Wednesday, January 21, 2026
The Field of Open Tabs
Go to the ant, you sluggard; consider its ways and be wise! … How long will you lie there, you sluggard? When will you get up from your sleep? A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest—and poverty will come on you like a thief and scarcity like an armed man. Proverbs 6:6,9-11
Emerson’s universe fit on the screen of his laptop: twenty-three open tabs in his browser. There was a half-finished digital marketing course, an e-book on investments from which he never got past the first chapter, drafts of a freelance project for an impatient client, and, amidst it all, the real thieves of his time: social media, gaming forums, and streaming platforms.
He was a talented graphic designer with a keen eye for aesthetics. But his talent was buried under layers of inertia. His life was a series of enthusiastic beginnings and silent abandonments. “I’ll finish it tomorrow,” was his motto. “Just one more episode,” his daily sentence. He lived in a cycle of “a little sleep, a little slumber,” with his hands folded over the keyboard.
Outside his window, life pulsed. He would watch, with a pang of envy, the tireless movement of the city. From his ledge, he saw people like ants marching in a stubborn line, each one carrying a load greater than itself, moved by an invisible purpose. They were a spectacle of commitment that he admired but did not imitate.
Poverty, like a stealthy robber, began to break down the doors of his life. First, it was financial. The client for the freelance project, tired of excuses, canceled the contract. The rent was late. The credit card hit its limit.
But the cruelest poverty was of another kind. His desk, his “field,” was full of digital “thorns and nettles”: abandoned projects, unanswered emails, missed opportunities. The “stone wall” of his credibility was in ruins. Friends stopped recommending him for jobs. His own confidence in his ability began to erode.
Need, like an armed man, confronted him on a rainy Tuesday. The power in his apartment was cut off for non-payment. In the dark, with his laptop running on a dwindling battery, the silence was broken only by the sound of his stomach growling. There was nowhere left to run, no more “tomorrows.”
He sat on the cold floor and, for the first time, faced the reflection of his own negligence. No one was to blame. Not the economy, not the lack of opportunities. The fault lay in his choices, in his constant surrender to inertia. He had allowed invisible thieves—procrastination, distraction, lack of discipline—to steal his future, crumb by crumb.
That night, in the dark, he remembered the ants on his window. Their silent wisdom, their relentless work ethic.
The next morning, with what little battery he had left, he did not open social media. He opened a new document and wrote an email to his former client. He made no excuses. He just wrote: “I failed you and the project. I know it is late, but I would like to finish the work, at no cost, just to honor my word.”
The client, surprised, accepted.
It was the first step. Emerson began to rebuild the wall of his life, stone by stone. He started closing unnecessary tabs, focusing on one task at a time, finding satisfaction not in starting something new, but in finishing something old.
It was not a magical transformation. It was a daily, tiring battle against his own habits. But with each small victory, with each completed task, he felt his field being cleared. The thorns of procrastination were giving way to fertile soil, ready for a new sowing. Poverty had not disappeared, but the robber had been expelled from his house.
(Made with AI)
This story is part of my book Everyday Wisdom
https://books2read.com/u/3knogL
Monday, January 19, 2026
Releasing Ourselves from the Weight
Many times, we charge many wounds in our spirit,
We charge all wounds like it was a duty.
We go dragging this for a long and painful way,
Without noticing, little by little, we are oppressed by this weight.
The weight of the hurt drags itself and leads us to walk slowly,
We feel we are staying tired, walking on a path that we cannot keep.
This weight seems to get worse each moment that we are dragging,
When we notice, it is so heavy that we cannot keep charging.
We must be free from all weight and go back to full liberty,
We must see ahead and see our felicity.
But only exists one painful way that we come back to liberty,
The only way is to leave pride, ask for forgiveness and forgive.
Forgiveness will free us from all hurts and offenses of the past,
Forgiveness will open a new and beautiful road for us to track.
We will not charge any burdens or guilt in our lives,
We can live well, be happy, and be at peace the whole time.
This poem is part of the book Life Through the Words.
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Introduction
Introduction
God bless everyone. I created this blog intending to publish my poems inspired by God through his Holy Spirit who acts over everyone, transf...
