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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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Gathering the Broken Pieces #sadpoetry #poetryaddict #poem

After the storm,

I found myself standing
among the ruins
of a life I once knew.

The skies had cleared,
but the damage remained.

Scattered across the ground
were broken pieces, 

pieces of trust,
pieces of dreams,
pieces of people
who promised they would stay.

I knelt in silence.

Not because I was strong,
but because there was nothing left
to hold me upright.

The storm had taken much.

It stole familiar voices.

It carried away plans
I had carefully built.

It left empty chairs
where laughter once lived.

And painful goodbyes
echoed through the halls
of my memory.

Some departures
arrive without warning.

A final conversation.

A closed door.

A fading heartbeat.

A last glance
that becomes forever.

Loss has a way
of changing the shape
of a soul.

It carves valleys
where mountains once stood.

It teaches lessons
no one ever wishes to learn.

And yet,

there I was,

gathering the broken pieces.

One by one.

The piece called courage.

The piece called faith.

The piece called hope,
which had somehow survived
beneath the wreckage.

Some fragments cut my hands.

Others brought tears.

Each piece carried
a memory.

A wound.

A lesson.

A scar.

I wanted to leave them there.

To walk away
from everything that hurt.

But healing asks something difficult:

It asks us to rebuild
with the very pieces
that shattered us.

So I gathered them.

Not to become
who I once was,

but to become
someone new.

For storms do not return us
to our former selves.

They transform us.

And though the cracks remain,
they tell a story
of survival.

A story of someone
who stood in the aftermath
of loss,
crisis,
and heartbreaking farewells,

and chose,
with trembling hands,

to keep going.

To keep rebuilding.

To keep believing.

For sometimes
the most beautiful souls

are not the ones
that were never broken,

but the ones
who gathered their scattered pieces

after the storm

and learned how to shine
through the cracks.


© 2026 Gloria Penelope

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