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...
Simply beautiful—
Yes, to the eye.
A face the world admires,
a smile that convinces.
But inside,
Your heart is like rotten bread,
soft once, perhaps,
now taken over by mould,
spreading easily, quietly,
without resistance.
Evil settles in your deeds,
so cold it forgets gentleness,
So sharp it forgets mercy.
A woman in form,
yet stripped of warmth,
carrying a stone where a heart should rest.
No softness lives there,
no pause before cruelty,
no echo of compassion.
What shaped you this way?
What storms hardened your soul?
What pain taught you to wound without regret?
You are not what you appear to be.
Beauty stops at your skin
and dares not go deeper.
Oh God— Who is this Lady?
Who is she?
Behind her mask, the world is fooled.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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