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 dry season came without mercy,
Cracking the earth, whitening the sky.
Rivers forgot their own names,
And even the clouds passed by.
No water left to drink in the jars,
No green on the tired land.
Plants bowed down into dust,
Grass vanished from the animals’ hands.
Cattle walked with hollow eyes,
Hooves tapping prayers in the sand.
People counted days by hunger,
Not by clocks or future plans.
That’s how life turns dry as well,
When money stops flowing through.
Dreams wither like thirsty leaves,
Hope fades to a brittle hue.
A dry financial season steals quietly—
It takes the voice, the rest, the pride.
You look full from the outside,
But inside, everything has died.
Just like land waits for the rain,
So a weary soul still stays.
Knowing drought is not forever,
Even in its longest days.
For every dry and cruel season
Ends when rain remembers the ground.
And life, once parched and broken,
Will drink again when the mercy is found.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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