Respect ain’t earned—it’s offered raw,
like bread to mouths that never ask.
It’s saying “God bless” to the bitter ones,
and meaning it, behind the mask.

It’s nodding to elders lost in fog,
whose ears don’t catch your tone or name.
Still you speak with reverent hush,
like they’re kings in a forgotten frame.
Even if they can’t hear the words,
you say them soft, like sacred flame.

It’s loving parents who never stayed,
who left you with a half-built prayer.
You love them not for what they gave—
but for the ache that made you care.

It’s grace without receipt or proof,
a stubborn light in someone’s night.
It’s choosing kindness when it’s rough,
and walking on without the fight.