It wasn’t real, that connection you held up like something rare. It was only your restless emptiness reaching outward, never inward where truth lived. There was something in you, a rare kind of wrongness, not loud, but steady, growing in the quiet corners You refused to clean. Your habits sank deep, roots of neglect and excuse, feeding on your comfort, tightening around any chance of becoming better. Inside your chest, something lingered, not wounded, but slowly rotting from everything you chose not to face. Your words carried weight, but not wisdom, dirty with judgment, falling on others as if they owed you effort You would never give yourself. You dreamed wildly, expected greatly, Yet moved nowhere. Laziness sat in you like spring, fresh, alive, growing stronger each day You chose not to change. And so you became a tree, Not shaped by storms, but by stillness. Not broken, but unused. A tree that stands alone, roots deep in wasted time, branches stretched with empty wants, leaves gree...
Life is not one colour,
It is a wandering spectrum,
spilled across the canvas of breath.
Crimson of courage,
Indigo of doubt,
golden streaks of fleeting joy
caught between storm-grey hours.
Let the wind speak.
Do not curse its restless hands
when it tangles your certainty.
The wind is a tutor without a classroom.
It bends the tallest trees
yet teaches them how not to break.
Stand in its language.
Sway, but remain rooted.
When the sea grows furious,
hurling its white-frothed anger
against unyielding stone,
remember,
Its rage is only a chapter.
Beneath the roaring surface
lives a quiet blue pulse,
a patience older than storms.
So too within you:
Tempests may rise,
but calmness is never erased,
only waiting for its turn.
The sun does not argue with the dusk.
It withdraws in amber dignity,
trusting return.
And the moon, silver and contemplative,
does not compete with daylight.
It glows in borrowed brilliance,
teaching that even reflected light
can guide the lost.
Mountains endure centuries of pressure,
yet remain unmoved in their resolve.
Rivers surrender their shape
to carve their destiny.
One stands firm.
The other yields,
Both arrive where they are meant to be.
Nature does not hurry its becoming.
Seeds split in darkness
before they ever taste the sky.
So when your days feel buried,
remember the soil is not your grave,
It is your preparation.
Life paints in contrasts:
thunder and hush,
shadow and blaze,
fall and bloom.
Learn its palette.
Let the wind refine you,
let the sea remind you,
Let the earth steady you.
For you are not separate
from the colours of this world.
You are one of them,
changing with the light,
deepening with the storm,
and always, always
capable of calm.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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