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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 Fourteenth Illusion #lovepoem #freeverse #poetry

It is that month again,
when love rehearses its entrance
beneath borrowed lights.

February arrives draped in velvet red,
perfumed with roses that bloom on schedule,
while storefront hearts beat
to the rhythm of commerce.

Affection becomes an exhibition.
Promises glitter like temporary gold.
And suddenly,
those who forgot your name in January
remember it in crimson ink.

Love wears many colors now,
red for passion,
pink for softness,
white for innocence,
but rarely the quiet, steady hue
of truth.

Feelings, once buried,
rise like ghosts
just for this appointed day.
Old flames flicker.
Lonely hearts echo louder.
Words long unsent
find their way to trembling screens.

Yet wisdom whispers.
Not every rose carries fragrance.
Not every confession carries weight.
Not every “forever.”
has survived a season.

Some loves appear only on calendars,
arriving with chocolates and rehearsed devotion,
departing before the month turns.

And even food joins the celebration,
tables dressed in sweetness,
desserts shaped like desire,
hunger disguised as romance.

But hunger is not love.
And spectacle is not substance.

So walk gently through this painted month.
Let your heart remain open,
but guarded by clarity.

Not every offered love
wears reality beneath its colors.

Some hearts bloom daily.
Others bloom only
on the fourteenth.


© 2026 Gloria Penelope

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