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 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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