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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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The Unfinished Chapters #poetryaddict #poem #sadpoetry

They called me mad.

They stood at the edge of my storms,
pointing trembling fingers
toward the thunder in my mind.

"Madness approaches,"
they whispered,
as though it were some distant beast
crawling from the shadows.

But they were wrong.

Madness was never approaching.

It had already built its home
within the hollow rooms of my soul,
hung its coat upon my ribs,
and slept beneath my skin.

I became its closest companion.

Together we wandered through
the chapters of my life,
pages stained with tears,
corners burned by regret,
sentences crossed out by fate's cruel hand.

Some chapters smelled of spring,
of innocence and impossible dreams.

Others reeked of decay,
of promises buried beneath dead leaves
and forgotten graves.

Life never asked permission
before turning the page.

It simply did.

A mother's voice became an echo.
A friend's face became a memory.
A lover's touch became a ghost.

And still the pages turned.

I searched for meaning
between the lines,
only to find silence
scribbled in every margin.

Perhaps that is why
they feared me.

I asked questions
that the world was too frightened to answer.

I stared into darkness
until darkness became familiar.

I danced with my demons
until I could no longer tell
which footsteps were theirs
and which belonged to me.

Yet even now,
with ink-stained hands
and a heart heavy as winter earth,
I remain unfinished.

The final chapter has not been written.

The last page still trembles
in the hands of tomorrow.

There are paragraphs yet to bleed,
sorrows yet to bloom,
and truths still hiding
beneath the dust of unwritten words.

So let them call me mad.

Let them name me
after storms and shadows.

Books are rarely understood
before they are finished.

And I,

I am merely a story
half-written by fate,
half-written by my wounds,

standing between the end
and the beginning,

waiting for the next page
to turn itself.


© 2026 Gloria Penelope

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