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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 One I Buried Softly #sadpoetry #freeverse #poem

There is a version of me
I buried without a name,
no stone, no ceremony,
just silence pressed into the ground
with trembling hands.

No one saw the funeral.
It happened behind steady eyes,
between breaths, I pretended to be calm,
beneath a voice that said I’m fine
until it almost sounded true.

That version of me
cried in places no one visits,
in the pause before sleep,
in the echo after laughter,
in the spaces between words
I never dared to say aloud.

I wrapped them in quiet.
Folded their pain into smaller shapes,
tucked it neatly behind ribs
where it could ache politely,
where it wouldn’t disturb anyone.

They had a softer heart,
that one,
too open, too willing
to believe hands would stay
Once they learned the weight of holding.

They loved without armor.
Trusted without maps.
Broke without noise.

And when the cracks grew louder than I could bear,
I chose stillness over shattering.
I chose to bury them
before the world could finish the job.

But sometimes,
in the hush of an ordinary moment,
I feel them.

Not gone.
Just quiet.

A pulse beneath the surface,
a whisper through old wounds,
a ghost made not of absence
but of everything that once felt too much.

They are still there,
the one I buried softly,
holding all the tears I never let fall,
carrying the pieces I couldn’t keep.

And I wonder
If healing is not forgetting them,
not leaving them in the dark,
But learning to kneel
at the place I left them,

And I finally say:

You didn’t deserve to disappear.


© 2026 Gloria Penelope

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