The Quiet Hollow
Have you ever felt empty inside?
There are no words I know to say, For what I feel inside today No storm that rages, wild and loud, No lightning hidden in a cloud It’s just a hollow, quiet place, An unseen ache I cannot trace A vacant room behind my eyes, Where even whispered meaning dies I search for language, line by line, For some small phrase to make it mine Yet every word I try to keep, Falls silent in the empty deep The heart can break with tears that flow, But some wounds never seem to show. They linger in the stillness there, Like absent songs upon the air And though I cannot name this space, Or fully understand its face I know not every hurt must speak, To prove that it has left me weak So I will sit with what is true, And let the quiet carry through For even emptiness, I’ve learned, Can mark a place where hope once burned And perhaps beneath the silent night, Beyond the reach of present sight A single spark still softly gleams, Waiting to kindle future dreams
If you enjoyed this poem, please check out more work from myself, and others, at www.chaoticrambling.com
I would love for you to check out my recently published book, “Between Then and Now”, a collection of 60 poems written between the ages of 15 and 39, it’s currently being sold at Amazon. It’s also available on kindle unlimited.
Stay tuned for my book “Between Now and Hope.” It will be released sometime in 2026. It’s a collection of poems that focus on making this world a better place.
Thank you for taking the time to read my words.
What stayed with me most is the idea that not every hurt has to speak in order to be real.
The poem captures a quieter kind of pain, the kind that doesn’t arrive as a storm but as absence, stillness, and a room emptied of meaning.
That makes the final turn toward hope feel soft rather than forced...
April, this poem struck me deeply.
The image of the quiet hollow feels so true — not the loud storm of grief or overwhelm, but the emptiness that can come after too much has been carried for too long.
I spent a decade working for a disaster response organization, and we often moved from one disaster to the next with barely a breath for recovery. There was always another fire, flood, earthquake, crisis, or family in need. At the time, I don’t think I fully understood how much a person can hold before the inner landscape begins to feel hollowed out.
Your line about how “not every hurt must speak” especially moved me. Some wounds do not announce themselves. They simply wait in the quiet.
Thank you for naming this space so tenderly — and for leaving us with the possibility of a spark still waiting beneath the silence.