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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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So Do I #sadpoetry #poem #freeverse

So do I,
Feel the fire clawing beneath my ribs,
A wildfire that devours reason,
And leaves only ash and echo in its wake.
Anger rises like tidewater, relentless,
Pulling me into currents I cannot name,
Chilling and scorching at once.

So do I,
Hear the silent screams
That no lips dare utter,
The betrayal of trust dripping into my veins,
A poison mingled with the blood of memory.
My heart pulses, a frantic drum,
Beating against a cage of brittle bones,
Each rhythm a rebellion,
Each thump a confession
I cannot make it to anyone but myself.

So do I,
Tremble in the mirror of my own despair,
Where reflections twist and fracture,
Where shadows wear my face
And mock the light I once knew.
I reach for solace,
But it slips through my fingers like smoke,
And I grasp only fragments of myself,
Sharp as shattered glass.

So do I,
Feel my soul rent into two rivers,
One of flame, one of ice,
Both cutting, both drowning me,
Both calling my name in whispers
That promise salvation
Yet offer only torment.
I drink from them both,
And the taste is ruined,
Yet I cannot stop.

So do I,
Lie awake at the hour when the world sleeps,
Counting every wound I have ignored,
Every word I should have spoken,
Every love I let crumble into dust.
My chest is a cavern of echoes,
Filled with sighs that never reach the stars,
Filled with footsteps of ghosts I cannot outrun.

So do I,
Burn with a fury
That is neither righteous nor tame,
That devours my tenderness
Before it can touch another.
I walk through this fire barefoot,
And my soles are scorched,
But still I press forward,
As if motion alone might stave off the darkness
That claws at the edges of my mind.

So do I,
Feel heartbreak not as a wound
But as a landscape,
Endless, barren, and scarred,
Where memories bloom like poisoned flowers,
And every scent carries the sting of loss.
I wander there daily,
Collecting fragments of laughter and pain,
Stitching them together into a tapestry of torment,
Because even suffering has its form,
And form can be endured.

So do I,
Taste the bitterness of what cannot be undone,
The weight of unspoken apologies,
The residue of every choice I regret.
It clings to my tongue,
Sharp and metallic,
And yet I swallow it,
Because I am bound to myself,
And there is no one else to save me.

So do I,
Walk the corridors of my mind
Where anger sleeps and wakes at will,
Where shadows speak in riddles,
And mirrors reflect futures
That may never come.
Each step echoes with uncertainty,
Each breath carries the tremor of fear,
Each heartbeat drums a warning
That I am both hunter and prey.

So do I,
Know the torment of my own cleverness,
The cruelty of insight that sees everything
Yet cannot fix a single thing.
I have learned the price of awareness:
It is a solitude without end,
A cage built from truths too sharp to touch,
And yet, I walk it willingly,
Because ignorance is a luxury I cannot afford.

So do I,
Feel, ache, rage, and bleed
Within the same trembling body.
My soul is a battlefield
Where hope fights despair,
Where love struggles against fear,
Where silence threatens to swallow me whole.
I am every wound I have hidden,
Every fire I have started,
Every scream that never left my lips.

So do I,
Endure the endless turmoil,
The storm that will not pass,
The night that refuses to surrender to dawn.
And yet, in the deepest black,
A small pulse remains,
A flicker of defiance,
A stubborn ember
That refuses to die.

So do I,
Remember that even in torment,
Even in rage,
Even in heartbreak,
I am still here.
I am still breathing.
I am still alive.
And in that simple truth,
I find the smallest, strangest grace:
That a soul, even ravaged,
Can bear witness to itself
And survive.


© 2026 Gloria Penelope

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