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...
Life moves fast between tall buildings,
where mornings don’t wait for tired souls.
The sun rises over concrete dreams,
and people wake already running late.
Faces pass without names or stories,
each mind locked inside its own survival.
Everyone carries a private battle,
hidden behind quick steps and steady eyes.
Cars flood the streets like endless rivers,
horns shouting louder than human voices.
Red lights blink, engines roar,
time itself feels chased and breathless.
On the sidewalks, beggars take their places,
day after day, on the same corners,
working hope into open hands,
learning patience from the dust and noise.
Hustling is not a trend here.
It is the city’s daily language.
Employed or not, everyone grinds
suits, uniforms, and worn-out shoes alike.
Dreams are chased between shifts and traffic,
sleep is borrowed, rest is rare.
Life is hard in the city’s heart,
where there’s no time to pause or interfere.
No space to carry another’s burden,
no room for slow emotions.
Here, survival sets the rhythm,
and hustling remains the motto
that keeps the city alive.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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