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It's Not About You #poemaday #poetryaddict #poem

The mountain never bowed to applause, Nor did the river pause for tears. The sky has carried a thousand storms Without remembering a single face. You are a traveler, not the road. A heartbeat, not the clock. The world was already speaking Long before it learned your name. Some goodbyes bloom from seasons, Not from mistakes. Some distances are drawn by time, Not by the hands that reach across them. Don't make yourself the author Of every unfinished sentence. Some pages are left blank Because silence belongs there. There is a strange mercy In not standing at the center Of every ending, Of every change. The sun does not rise to prove a point. The stars do not dim to send a message. Life simply unfolds, Wild, indifferent, beautiful. So carry your kindness, Leave your footprints lightly, And when the world turns without asking, Smile. It's not about you. That's how it is. © 2026 Gloria Penelope
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Invisible Wound #sadpoetry #freeverse #poem

I ache as though pierced by steel,
yet my body stands unbroken,
no blood to testify,
no scar to translate the suffering.
The wound lives where eyes cannot reach
a silent hemorrhage of the heart.

My chest carries a constant unrest,
a grief that refuses sleep.
Peace has fled my inner chambers,
leaving behind a hollow echo
where hope once knelt and breathed.

My soul is not shattered in violence,
but dismantled slowly,
piece by piece,
by hands skilled in quiet harm.

I was spent like something disposable,
used, then discarded without ceremony,
my worth measured only
by how much could be extracted from me.

Compensation came as crumbs of mercy,
food offered not as respect,
but as one feeds the forgotten,
as though I were a stranger to dignity,
homeless beneath the roof of my labor.

What a merciless master you were,
to turn authority into cruelty,
to confuse command with ownership,
and power with the right to diminish.

Yet even now, unseen and aching,
I carry what you could not consume:
a voice bruised but unextinguished,
a soul wounded yet aware,
and the quiet certainty
that no man who feeds on another’s suffering
ever truly stands tall.


© 2026 Gloria Penelope

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