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Love's Dark Reflection #lovepoetry #poetrydaily #poemaday

Love was never a heartbeat. It was the echo left behind after the heart forgot why it was still beating. It arrived wearing another person's face, its hands stitched together from promises that had already begun to rot. I welcomed it. Not because it was kind, but because loneliness knows how to mistake a wolf for warmth. Every smile it offered cast a longer shadow. Every whispered "forever" fed another ghost sleeping beneath my ribs. The thought of love is a clever liar. It builds cathedrals from broken mirrors, then asks us to kneel before our own reflections, calling the illusion destiny. How eagerly we obey. We water flowers that grow from graves, write poems to people who never truly existed, and embrace memories still unborn. Love watches. Silent. Patient. Like a spider waiting in the center of a web woven from hope. It never forces us inside. It simply lets us believe the silver threads are rays of morning light. By the time we understand, the sky has forgotten our ...
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Healing Where Hope Is Gone #poem #healing #inspirationalpoetry

There was a house inside my chest

Where every window had been broken,
Curtains hanging like tired prayers,
Doors swollen shut from years of storms
That no one noticed.

The floors remembered every footstep
Of grief that walked barefoot through me.
Every goodbye stayed like dust
On shelves I no longer touched.
Even laughter sounded abandoned there.

I became familiar with darkness.
Not the kind that visits at night—
The kind that moves into your bones,
Unpacks its sorrow,
And calls itself home.

People said,
“Time heals.”
But time only watched me drown quietly
While pretending I still knew how to swim.

I smiled with exhausted eyes,
Spoke in half-hearted breaths,
Carried entire wars in my ribs
While the world mistook silence
For strength.

Hope left slowly.

Not like lightning.
Like winter.

One cold hour at a time.

Until mornings felt meaningless,
Mirrors became strangers,
And my soul sat alone
Like an orphan waiting for a name.

Yet healing,
Healing did not arrive beautifully.

It did not come singing.
It came crawling.

Slow as wounded rain.

It came in tiny moments
That almost seemed unimportant:

The day I opened the curtains again.
The night I cried instead of pretending.
The moment my shaking hands
Stopped apologizing for surviving.

Healing came dressed as exhaustion,
As messy rooms, unfinished prayers,
Late-night breathing,
And learning that rest
Is not weakness.

Some days I still broke apart.

Some nights grief returned
Like an old landlord demanding rent
From a soul already emptied.

But little by little,
The darkness stopped sounding like forever.

Flowers began growing
In places pain had buried alive.
My scars stopped feeling ugly
And started feeling honest.

I learned that healing
Is not becoming untouched again.

It is touching your wounds
Without bleeding to death from them.

It is carrying broken memories
Without letting them bury your future.

It is learning
That even abandoned hearts
Can still become gardens.

And maybe hope never truly dies.

Maybe it hides
In the smallest surviving things:

A deep breath after crying.
A sunrise you almost ignored.
A stranger’s kindness.
A trembling heart
Still choosing tomorrow.

So if your soul feels ruined tonight,
If your spirit is tired of carrying storms,
If darkness has taught you
How heavy loneliness can become,

Listen carefully.

The earth still heals after fire.
The ocean still returns after drought.
And hearts,
Even shattered hearts,
Still remember how to bloom.

One quiet piece at a time.


© 2026 Gloria Penelope

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