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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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Beneath the Quiet Surface of a Wounded Soul #sadpoetry #poetrydaily #poem

Beneath the quiet surface
of a wounded soul,

lie shipwrecks
no one was meant to see.

The world knows the smile.

The practiced nod.

The calm voice
that never trembles.

But it does not know
the darkness sleeping underneath.

It does not know
how many nights
were spent gathering broken pieces
from the floor of despair.

How many times
hope was buried
and resurrected
before the dawn arrived.

There is a graveyard there.

A place where trust lies buried.

Where old dreams
rest beneath nameless stones.

Where the ghosts of betrayals
still wander the corridors
of memory.

Yet I walk among them
without fear.

For I have become familiar
with my shadows.

Pain was once a visitor.

Now it is an old acquaintance.

The wound never truly vanished.

It simply learned
how to wear silence.

And silence
is a dangerous thing.

For rivers run deepest
where the surface appears calm.

Volcanoes sleep peacefully
before they awaken.

And wounded souls
often carry storms
behind gentle eyes.

The darkness within me
is not born from hatred.

It is born from surviving.

From standing alone
when no one stayed.

From learning to breathe
when grief wrapped its fingers
around my throat.

From watching innocence
bleed slowly
into wisdom.

So when you look at me,
do not be deceived
by the stillness.

Do not mistake composure
for an absence of scars.

For beneath this quiet surface
lives a thousand untold battles,

a thousand silent screams,

and a soul
that was shattered so completely

it learned how to forge itself
into something stronger
than the hands
that tried to break it.

And perhaps that is the darkest truth of all:

The deepest wounds
do not destroy a soul.

They transform it.

Into something quieter.

Something heavier.

Something that carries both
the darkness
and the strength
to survive it.


© 2026 Gloria Penelope

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