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...
Do not treat women
like garments of passing seasons,
tried on in mirrors of desire,
discarded when the fit demands effort.
A heart is not fabric
It remembers every hand that pulls it apart.
You mistake change for freedom,
variety for power,
leaving pieces of yourself
in every soul you bruise.
What you call moving on
is really a debt, quietly piling up.
Karma is patient.
It does not shout.
It writes your name
into the marrow of time,
counts every hollow promise,
weighing every careless touch.
One day, love will come to you
without tenderness,
a reflection sharpened, "karma."
giving back what you practiced.
No mercy, no warning,
Only balance restored.
This is life.
It bends toward truth
no matter how you twist it.
So stop sculpting your fate
with borrowed hearts,
let it harden into a shape
you cannot escape.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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