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
Who gave birth to inequality in life?
Was it time, or the hands that shaped it wrong?
Who whispered poverty into the cradle,
And called it fate when it learned to cry?
Who taught the world to measure worth
By weight of gold instead of weight of heart?
Who built tall walls and named them progress,
While shadows slept beneath the stairs?
Who gave birth to hunger with full granaries,
To cold nights beside burning lights?
Who crowned power and blindfolded justice,
Then, I asked the poor why they still knelt.
Who taught disrespect to look normal,
To laugh at torn shoes and tired hands?
Who made the struggle a spectacle,
And suffering a crime of birth?
Life becomes unbearable
When dignity is rationed,
When hope is taxed,
When survival is mistaken for laziness.
The poor did not give birth to their pain—
It was delivered by silence,
Raised by greed,
And educated by indifference.
Yet still, in cracked voices and calloused palms,
A question survives the weight of days:
If humans created this imbalance,
Can humans not unmake it, too?
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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