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When Your Hands Are Empty #poemofhope #faithpoetry #spokenwordpoetry

There will be a season when you have done all you know to do and still, nothing. No answer at the door. No sudden change. No sign in the sky telling you that tomorrow will be kinder. Just you, your unanswered prayer, and the strange silence that makes you question whether God is still listening. He is. Do not mistake silence for absence. Some of God's deepest work happens without making a sound. Roots grow in darkness. Healing happens beneath skin. Morning begins long before the window knows there is light. And somewhere beyond what you can see, your life is being moved by hands you cannot follow. So do not abandon your faith because you cannot trace God's footsteps. You were never promised a clear view. You were given enough light for the next step. Take it. Even if your knees shake. Even if your heart has questions your mouth is afraid to ask. Take it. Faith is not a life without uncertainty. It is waking up with uncertainty beside you and refusing to let it choose your direc...
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Rotten from the root #poem

The mind was once an orchard, green and wide,
Where careful thoughts like summer apples grew.
But neglect crept in, with comfort at its side,
And sweetness spoiled where discipline once knew.

Ideas fell heavy, bruised before they landed,
Left in the dirt, ignored, unnamed, unseen.
Mold crowned the core of dreams once carefully planted,
Turning bright intention dull, bitter, and mean.

Days tangled like rooms never cleaned or aired,
Promises stacked like trash along the wall.
A messy life, with corners long unshared,
Where silence learned the echo of the fall.

Hands that should sort truth from waste and lie
You chose ease, you chose delay, later, and soon.
And so the orchard watched itself slowly die
Under a careless, unwatchful moon.

Then came the tears, salty and sincere,
Crying over fruit too rotten to save.
Grief for the self that once lived here,
Before bad habits dug their grave.

The pain was real, but so was the blame—
Rot does not bloom without neglect.
A ruined mind, a whispered name,
A mess built brick by brick, choice by choice, step by step.

Yet even rot feeds soil when buried deep;
From decay, new roots can rise.
If the keeper wakes from careless sleep
And dares to clean, to prune, to try.


© 2025 Gloria Penelope



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