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
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 green with excuses.
Alive,
but only in appearance.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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