There is a place inside you No map has ever traced, a quiet room behind the ribs where light forgets to stay. No one sees it when you smile, No one hears it when you speak. It moves beneath your laughter like a river running deep. It is yours alone to carry, not carved for other hands, a language made of silence Only your soul understands. Some mornings it is heavier, a stone you cannot name, And still you rise and wear your life as if it were the same. But pain, it does not leave you when ignored or pushed away, it waits within the folds of time, it learns you day by day. It is not your enemy, though it cuts without a sound; it is the truth you buried but still lives underground. And yes, there are nights it breaks you, when endurance feels too wide, when even breath feels borrowed And there is nowhere left to hide. Yet somehow you continue, not because you do not fall, but because within the breaking You still answer life’s call. You learn to walk beside it, not beneath it, not above...
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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