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...
There is a plant inside my life
That only wakes when rain remembers me.
Its roots know hope by instinct,
they drink quickly,
afraid the sky will change its mind.
But most days,
The desert arrives first.
It stretches across my hours,
cracks my patience open,
teaches thirst in a language
No one wants to learn.
This drought becomes a season—
long, unannounced, unforgiving.
Dreams dry into dust,
words lose their softness,
and even faith walks barefoot
on burning ground.
People suffer quietly here.
Smiles are rationed.
Promises evaporate.
We learn how to survive
on almost nothing
and call it strength.
Then—
rain.
Not loud at first.
Just a whisper on the sand,
a cool truth falling from above.
And the plant rises,
green against all logic,
proving life was never gone,
only waiting.
The desert does not disappear,
But it loosens its grip.
Cracks close a little.
Breath comes easier.
And once again,
We remember:
This season is not forever.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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