The Hypocrisy Race

By N Veyra

Life is a damn competition,

a track lined with claws and teeth,

where we shove each other off the lanes

and still dare to preach be kind.

Kindness

a banner waved by losers,

a consolation prize

for those who never tasted the podium.

We’re taught to smile,

to play fair,

to hold doors open

but when the whistle blows,

we sprint like wolves in suits,

snarling for medals,

pretending we’re saints.

And when we win?

We don’t thank the sweat on our backs,

the blood on our knees

we thank a god who never ran beside us.

A ghost judge.

An invisible referee.

An invention so we don’t choke

on our own emptiness.

Then a house burns down.

Children die coughing in the dark.

Mothers claw at windows that won’t open.

And the world?

It cheers not for the lives lost,

but for the Bible that sat untouched on a shelf,

its pages smug and spotless.

Praise the miracle! they cry,

while the ashes of the dead

are still warm.

Humans

hypocrites dressed in faith.

We scream about kindness,

but trample the broken

because their tragedy isn’t sacred enough.

We kneel before paper and ink,

but not the charred bones

that once carried laughter.

This is the madness:

life as a contest,

god as a mascot,

and kindness as a lie

we chant to children

while sharpening our knives.

And I spit at it.

At the race,

at the false trophies,

at the fools who clap for a book unburnt

while a family is reduced to smoke.

Ew, people.

Ew, this theater of madness.

If there are gods,

they are the ones laughing,

and if there are none

then the joke is still on us.

By N Veyra