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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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Thrown Away #sadpoetry #poem-a-day #poetry

They looked at me
the way people look at rubbish,
useful for a moment,
then forgotten at the side of the road.

I carried their burdens,
held their secrets,
gave pieces of my soul
to keep their worlds from breaking.

But kindness was a currency
they spent without repayment.

My tears bled in silence,
invisible rivers of red
flowing beneath a face
forced to pretend it was whole.

No one saw them.

Or perhaps they did,
and simply chose not to care.

For mercy is a stranger
in the hearts of the wicked.
Compassion dies quickly
where selfishness builds its throne.

Their judgments fell like stones,
heavy and cold,
crushing the very hands
that once reached out to help them.

I was measured,
weighed,
and condemned
for scars they helped create.

When they needed me,
I was important.

When they finished with me,
I became nobody.

A discarded name.
A forgotten voice.
A shadow standing alone
at the edge of their celebrations.

The cruelest wounds
are not carved by enemies,
but by those who once called you friend,
while sharpening knives behind their smiles.

Now I walk through the ruins
of everything I gave away,
haunted by the echoes
of promises buried in shallow graves.

And still the world turns,
blind to the blood hidden in my tears,
blind to the emptiness left behind.

For some people
love is only a tool,
and people are only ladders.

And once they reach the heights they desire,
they kick away the hands
that lifted them.

Leaving you below,

broken,
bleeding,
forgotten,

like rubbish
beneath the feet
of the merciless.


© 2026 Gloria Penelope

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