The Cost of Good Intentions

I meant to bring light with a flick of the match,

but the curtains caught flame,

and the house turned to ash.

I meant to soothe storms with a word, soft and clear,

but my silence was thunder

in someone else’s ear.

I meant to leave footprints where healing had grown,

but my boots crushed the petals

I had never known.

Intentions, they shimmer like coins in the palm,

promises polished,

too often calm.

But the real world deals

in bruises and breath,

in wages of sorrow,

in moments near death.

Impact is heavier—

it lands where it lands,

a truth not deflected

by well-meaning hands.

So spend your intentions with care, not pride;

the heart may be golden,

but the ripple is wide.

We are not the authors of how we are felt—

and kindness, misfired,

is still pain dealt.

Let empathy count what good sense might miss:

real-world currency

looks more like this.