Unjust Justice - POEM

When giving turns into a debt we never meant to collect

Some injustices don’t arrive loudly.
They don’t shout or accuse.
They settle quietly inside us —
as confusion, as bitterness, as a question we don’t know how to ask.

This poem was written from that place.
Not to condemn the world, but to look honestly at what happens when giving slowly turns into waiting… and waiting into pain.

Here is the poem, as it came.

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Unjust Justice

The world hands me an injustice —
sad, violent, almost a curse.
A silent path, a cynical cry,
an icy wall, a toxic wind.

But is it really an injustice?
Misunderstood, without malice,
you can feel its sorrow in its moods,
full of love, full of shelter.

Like the sun at its peak,
its gentle fire hides a myth —
a tenderness with claws,
a smile stitched with slaps.

Tell me — isn’t it unjust?
To give everything without a thank you,
to love, save day and night,
and fall alone when everything slips away?

Isn’t it unjust, truly?
Always present, silently,
and when life screams desperately,
no one listens. Not even a little.

My heart cries over this injustice,
but I can see its scars —
wounded by hollow souls,
by liars, by sorcery.

Yes, it’s unfair — deeply unfair —
to wait, even unconsciously,
for what we sowed so tenderly
to one day return honestly.

Unjust to expect reciprocity,
as if, suddenly, giving
had stopped being loving
and turned into lending.

And receiving — that sacred gesture —
was no longer a sincere offering,
but a debt to be repaid.

“The injustice is the hope we attach to what we give.”

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Some realizations don’t come to accuse others.
They come to free us.

This one reminds me of something simple and difficult at once:
giving stops being love the moment it becomes expectation.

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Until next time,
take care.
Warmly,
Odel A.