He Is Karma.

He walks in silence, cloaked in charm, a smile that soothes, his voice disarms. But beneath the grin, a storm lies deep— a fire he stoked while they fell asleep.

They called him broken, too much, dismissed his cries with frozen touch. They called him strange, they called him weak, laughed when he flinched, ignored his speak. They tore the wings he tried to grow— now he’s the storm they’ll never know.

He Is Karma

His words—once full of light and grace, now twist like knives in soft embrace. What once was warmth now drips with spite, a poisoned lullaby at night.

He’s not revenge, he is the score,

a ledger kept behind closed doors.

The boy they bruised with sharpened pride, now sees the world from the other side. The boy they starved of love and grace

now wears a stranger’s colder face.

He Is Karma

To those who laughed when he had less, he offers wine—and bitterness. To friends who watched him drown, then smiled, he offers ruin, slow and styled. He plants a whisper, cracks their trust, and watches goodness turn to dust.

He nods and grins, lets secrets slip,

then watches trust begin to rip.

To family who turned away in scorn, he sends cold truths, sharp and worn. To kin who clothed him in their shame, he sends back truth—a scorched refrain. No fist, no scream, no pleading eyes— just hollow calm and slow goodbyes.

He Is Karma

He is not fire—he is the ash, that stains your hands from long-past lash. He doesn’t rage, he lets you rot, and gives back every scar you forgot.

No rage, no scream, no flailing hand— just the slow decay he carefully planned. He is not fire, he is the smoke, that creeps through cracks and makes you choke. He doesn’t strike, he lets things rot,

and gives back exactly what he got.

He he doesn’t beg, he cuts you down, then snaps the leg. No mercy left, no second dawn.

He is karma—

sharp, withdrawn.

Call him twisted, say he’s lost,

but only after counting cost.

You built the blade he came to wield— and now he reaps what you concealed. Call him cruel, say he’s unwell, but he was forged where silence fell.

He Is Karma

You named him weak, called him a flaw— now meet the man who writes your law. He doesn’t plead, he is the ghost of what you see. He’s not revenge, he is the toll, collected piece by piece, soul by soul.

And every move, each silent blow,

is for the one they’ll never know.

The love they shamed, the hearts they broke—he chose her—and let the rest go up in smoke.

He is karma

-🦩