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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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Memory, a Slave of Conscience #poem

Memory is a slave,
a quiet servant kneeling
before the throne of conscience.
It does not choose its master,
nor does it sleep when summoned.

It waits in the corridors of the mind,
dusting the frames of yesterday,
polishing the silver of forgotten laughter,
guarding the bruised relics of sorrow.
It obeys the whisper of the soul.

Where two souls once lingered,
time stitched its fragile tapestry,
threads of shared sunsets,
of trembling hands in winter air,
of words that built cathedrals
or shattered glass between them.

Good or bad,
tender or tempestuous,
Every moment is branded
with an invisible fire.
Even if their footsteps diverge,
even if they cross paths like strangers
beneath a sky that once held their promises,
The heart remains an archive,
sealed, sacred, unburned.

For memory does not dissolve
with distance.
It does not perish
with pride.
It serves conscience faithfully,
summoning faces in quiet rooms,
replaying echoes in sleepless nights,
reminding us of who we were
When we stood beside another.

Memory is a slave,
Yet powerful in its obedience.
It binds us to the tenderness we tasted,
to the wounds we survived,
to the love we dared to hold.

And though people may part
like rivers forced apart by stone,
their waters remember
the place they once merged.

For memory,
a slave of conscience,
carries every crossing, every farewell,
and lays them gently,
or heavily,
within the chambers of the heart.


© 2026 Gloria Penelope

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