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
Life leans crooked on my shoulders,
never weighing the same for all.
What falls on me comes sharp and sudden,
hailstones instead of rain—
each moment bruising, each day cold.
The world feels like a sentence passed
without a trial, without a voice.
Everything around me looks like punishment,
as if I’ve been named the culprit
for crimes I don’t remember committing.
Hatred hangs in the air I breathe,
invisible, yet certain,
and karma circles my name
as though my existence alone
demands repayment.
I cry—not loudly, not beautifully—
just the quiet kind that seeps into bones.
There is no mercy in these hours,
no sweetness to soften the taste.
Life presses lemons to my lips
and calls the bitterness growth.
Still, I stand—sour, yes,
but breathing.
And even hail must melt,
even storms grow tired of themselves.
If karma is working,
then so am I—
enduring,
unbroken enough to remain here.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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