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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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Rotten from the root #poem

The mind was once an orchard, green and wide,
Where careful thoughts like summer apples grew.
But neglect crept in, with comfort at its side,
And sweetness spoiled where discipline once knew.

Ideas fell heavy, bruised before they landed,
Left in the dirt, ignored, unnamed, unseen.
Mold crowned the core of dreams once carefully planted,
Turning bright intention dull, bitter, and mean.

Days tangled like rooms never cleaned or aired,
Promises stacked like trash along the wall.
A messy life, with corners long unshared,
Where silence learned the echo of the fall.

Hands that should sort truth from waste and lie
You chose ease, you chose delay, later, and soon.
And so the orchard watched itself slowly die
Under a careless, unwatchful moon.

Then came the tears, salty and sincere,
Crying over fruit too rotten to save.
Grief for the self that once lived here,
Before bad habits dug their grave.

The pain was real, but so was the blame—
Rot does not bloom without neglect.
A ruined mind, a whispered name,
A mess built brick by brick, choice by choice, step by step.

Yet even rot feeds soil when buried deep;
From decay, new roots can rise.
If the keeper wakes from careless sleep
And dares to clean, to prune, to try.


© 2025 Gloria Penelope



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