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It's Not About You #poemaday #poetryaddict #poem

The mountain never bowed to applause, Nor did the river pause for tears. The sky has carried a thousand storms Without remembering a single face. You are a traveler, not the road. A heartbeat, not the clock. The world was already speaking Long before it learned your name. Some goodbyes bloom from seasons, Not from mistakes. Some distances are drawn by time, Not by the hands that reach across them. Don't make yourself the author Of every unfinished sentence. Some pages are left blank Because silence belongs there. There is a strange mercy In not standing at the center Of every ending, Of every change. The sun does not rise to prove a point. The stars do not dim to send a message. Life simply unfolds, Wild, indifferent, beautiful. So carry your kindness, Leave your footprints lightly, And when the world turns without asking, Smile. It's not about you. That's how it is. © 2026 Gloria Penelope
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Before I Was Left #poem #sadpoetry

Life once fit easily in my hands,
light as laughter,
sweet as days that didn’t ask questions.
Existing was simple then—
friends came without effort,
joy didn’t need explaining.

Time moved gently.
I belonged without proving it.
I was known.

Then something shifted.
Quietly at first.
A job lost its grip on me,
and with it went structure,
purpose,
the small dignity of routine.

Life became heavier, unfamiliar.
Doors closed without noise,
messages stopped arriving,
chairs emptied around me.
People faded—
not with anger,
just absence.

Even family grew distant,
as if my struggle made me
harder to recognize.
Love thinned.
Silence grew bold.

Now I stand in rooms
echoing with who I used to be,
feeling like someone
new to the world,
someone without history.

I am alone
in a way that feels ancient,
as if I arrived here
without witnesses,
without roots.

Yet I remember—
how life once tasted sweet,
how ease once found me.
And maybe memory itself
is proof
that I was not always invisible,
that I have not always been alone.

I am still here,
holding what’s left of myself,
waiting—
not for the past to return,
but for life to learn my name again.


© 2025 Gloria Penelope

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