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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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The Inheritance of What Never Was #poem #sadpoetry

Is it fairness, or a twisted gift,
To walk this road alone, unclaimed?
To carry a name no one calls,
To grow in shadows where love should’ve stayed.

I ask the night, I ask the stars—
Was this written, or wrongly drawn?
To learn the world without a guide,
To wake each day already strong.

What if they lived?
What if their hands still knew my face?
Would life have spoken softer words,
Or slowed its unforgiving pace?

What if I rose in a different home,
Where laughter filled the air like song?
Where hunger was just a passing word,
Not a companion all along.

Maybe the scent of a sweeter life
Would’ve met me at morning’s door,
Not dust and doubt and empty plates,
Not wishing for a little more.

Unequal steps upon the same earth,
Some begin with crowns, some with chains.
Some inherit warmth and shelter,
Some inherit silence and pain.

Still, I breathe. Still, I stand.
Though love arrived too late to stay.
I carry dreams that never died,
Even when hope looked the other way.

If this is fate, let it be known—
I did not choose the cards I drew.
Yet in the absence of their arms,
I learned how to hold myself through.

Is it fair? I’ll never know.
Is it a gift? Time may decide.
But from the life that never was,
I built the one where I survive.

© 2025 Gloria Penelope

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