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
He calls it love,
but it falls in pieces,
not a feast,
just crumbs scattered at her feet.
She gathers them in silence,
hoping one day
they will become something whole,
something warm,
something real.
But his hands are empty
of truth.
His smile,
a mask polished for display,
soft words rehearsed
like lines in a play
He never meant to live.
Behind her back,
his absence speaks louder,
his presence thinner
than the promises he makes.
He moves like he owns her,
like her heart is a place
he conquered,
not a gift he was given.
And still he says,
“I love you,”
as if the words alone
can cover the distance
between what he shows
and what he is.
What a quiet kind of cruelty,
to offer illusion
and call it devotion.
But she,
she is not made of fragments.
She is not meant
to survive on less,
to shrink herself
into the shape of his half-love.
There is a truth waiting for her,
somewhere beyond his shadow,
a love that does not pretend,
does not disappear,
does not make her question
her own worth.
Because she is not nothing.
And love,
real love,
does not leave you
hungry.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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