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...
The lights shine bright on other doors,
Laughter spills into the street,
But in our house, Christmas knocks softly,
As if unsure, it’s welcome here.
No bags of goodies on the table,
No wrapped dreams beneath the tree,
Just quiet plates and careful portions,
And the weight of what can’t be.
It feels like Christmas wasn’t meant for us,
Like a song we’re not allowed to sing,
So we stay indoors, curtains half-drawn,
Watching joy pass by like a passing train.
Poverty shows no mercy this time of year,
It sharpens the ache, it names the lack,
Every smiling advert feels like a question
We don’t know how to respond.
Each year, December makes us feel heavy,
Like a burden we never chose to be,
Counting days instead of blessings,
Hoping January will set us free.
Yet still, in the quiet of our small room,
Family sits, close and warm,
No gifts to open, but hands still hold,
A fragile love, weathered by storm.
Maybe Christmas isn’t only wrapped in paper,
Maybe it breathes where hearts endure,
But oh, the sad truth remains unspoken—
Love survives,
Poverty leaves scars that last much longer.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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