Price of Nice — Jaded

He smiled when they cursed,
bowed when they mocked,
gave when it hurt,
and never once balked.
He listened too long,
spoke softly in storms,
offered his coat
when the world wasn’t warm.
They called him a saint,
“A good one, a light,”
but shadows grow long
when you’re always polite.
He bent ’til he broke,
still wore a grin,
but kindness, unchecked,
lets the darkness in.
The whispers came first,
like frost on the glass,
then laughter at mirrors
each night as they passed.
He fed every mouth
with pieces of soul—
’til nothing was left
but a smile-shaped hole.

And one day he snapped—
a crack in the grace.
The nicest of men
wore a new kind of face.
No rage, no roar,
just a calm, chilling nod,
as he painted the walls
in a silence like God.
They found him still smiling,
eyes empty with peace.
No blood on his hands—
just a note: “Release.”
The moral is cruel,
but listen, take care:
a nice soul can burn
from too much repair.
Kindness is sacred,
but never for free—
and even sweet angels
can drown in their plea.

“At the end of the day, the only fool in the act of kindness is
you—smiling like a saint while they pocket your halo. Watch how
people move; decency is as rare as a politician with a conscience.”

✓ Verified human-written