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
Sour days line my pockets,
sharp as pennies I can’t spend.
Poverty sits on my back
like a stone that never learned
how to be lifted.
Distress comes daily,
served warm like a meal I didn’t ask for,
familiar in its bitterness,
routine as breathing,
hard to refuse.
Life whispers as if—
as if I could redraw the map,
as if I could choose a different clan,
a softer starting line,
a name not weighed down by history.
I imagine destiny as a door
that opens for others with ease,
while mine sticks in the frame,
splintered, stubborn,
testing my patience.
Still—
I am here.
Not victorious, not saved,
but standing.
Still breathing through the sourness,
still holding space where hope
might someday sit.
The weight hasn’t left,
the days haven’t sweetened,
but neither have I disappeared.
And for now,
that is enough to say
I remain.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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