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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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Healing Where Hope Is Gone #poem #healing #inspirationalpoetry

There was a house inside my chest

Where every window had been broken,
Curtains hanging like tired prayers,
Doors swollen shut from years of storms
That no one noticed.

The floors remembered every footstep
Of grief that walked barefoot through me.
Every goodbye stayed like dust
On shelves I no longer touched.
Even laughter sounded abandoned there.

I became familiar with darkness.
Not the kind that visits at night—
The kind that moves into your bones,
Unpacks its sorrow,
And calls itself home.

People said,
“Time heals.”
But time only watched me drown quietly
While pretending I still knew how to swim.

I smiled with exhausted eyes,
Spoke in half-hearted breaths,
Carried entire wars in my ribs
While the world mistook silence
For strength.

Hope left slowly.

Not like lightning.
Like winter.

One cold hour at a time.

Until mornings felt meaningless,
Mirrors became strangers,
And my soul sat alone
Like an orphan waiting for a name.

Yet healing,
Healing did not arrive beautifully.

It did not come singing.
It came crawling.

Slow as wounded rain.

It came in tiny moments
That almost seemed unimportant:

The day I opened the curtains again.
The night I cried instead of pretending.
The moment my shaking hands
Stopped apologizing for surviving.

Healing came dressed as exhaustion,
As messy rooms, unfinished prayers,
Late-night breathing,
And learning that rest
Is not weakness.

Some days I still broke apart.

Some nights grief returned
Like an old landlord demanding rent
From a soul already emptied.

But little by little,
The darkness stopped sounding like forever.

Flowers began growing
In places pain had buried alive.
My scars stopped feeling ugly
And started feeling honest.

I learned that healing
Is not becoming untouched again.

It is touching your wounds
Without bleeding to death from them.

It is carrying broken memories
Without letting them bury your future.

It is learning
That even abandoned hearts
Can still become gardens.

And maybe hope never truly dies.

Maybe it hides
In the smallest surviving things:

A deep breath after crying.
A sunrise you almost ignored.
A stranger’s kindness.
A trembling heart
Still choosing tomorrow.

So if your soul feels ruined tonight,
If your spirit is tired of carrying storms,
If darkness has taught you
How heavy loneliness can become,

Listen carefully.

The earth still heals after fire.
The ocean still returns after drought.
And hearts,
Even shattered hearts,
Still remember how to bloom.

One quiet piece at a time.


© 2026 Gloria Penelope

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