Be honest… how many unfinished poems are hiding in your notes app?

The house is breathing slowly, walls holding their secrets like old men hold photographs carefully and with shaking hands. The clock doesn’t tick tonight, it presses. Each second lands heavy, a thumb on the chest, a quiet reminder that time never asks permission to keep moving. A lamp hums in the corner, casting soft gold over unfinished thoughts. A cup gone cold. A message unsent. A life paused mid-sentence, waiting for courage to remember its name. This is the hour when truth slips its shoes off and walks barefoot through memory. No noise. No crowd. Just you and the echo of everything you almost said. 11:37 PM is not dramatic. No thunder. No violins. Just the sound This is when masks loosen. When the mirror stops being polite. When the past leans forward like an old friend and asks, “Are you finally ready to be honest with me?” You sit there between what was and what could be, a thin wire of now stretching tight beneath your feet. And somewhere deep inside, beneath the bruises and the borrowed strength, a small voice stirs not loud, not brave, just stubborn enough to whisper: You don’t have to stay where you broke. 11:37 PM is where decisions are born quietly. No witnesses. No applause. Just a flicker behind the ribs that says maybe tomorrow can be different if you let it. So you sit. You breathe. You don’t run. Not this time. Because some nights don’t need saving they need remembering. And 11:37 PM will never make the news, but it will live forever in the place where your life finally turned toward the light. By Jason Strickland

Last night I found a box in my garage of my college days with 6 note books full of poems. So I'm going to share.

Sometimes a poem doesn’t start with a line. It starts with a feeling you can’t shake. A quiet heaviness. A memory that keeps knocking. A sentence that won’t fully form. And maybe you’ve been telling yourself: “I don’t have anything worth writing today.” But here’s the truth most writers learn eventually: A poem rarely begins with inspiration. It begins with attention. Noticing the moment. Noticing the ache. Noticing the small flicker inside you that says, There’s something here. You don’t have to force beauty today. You don’t have to impress anyone. You don’t even have to finish a poem. Just sit with something real. A memory. A word. A feeling you’ve been avoiding. And give it a few honest lines. That’s how most real poems begin. Not loudly. Not perfectly. But quietly… and true. Reflection for today: What’s one feeling or moment that’s been sitting with you lately, even if you don’t have the words for it yet? If you want, drop a line about it below. Not polished. Not perfect. Just real.

Half a Prayer It wasn’t a full prayer. Didn’t have structure. Didn’t rise clean. It broke in the middle like a sentence that forgot where it was going. Half a prayer is what happens when belief is still breathing but barely. I didn’t kneel. Didn’t fold my hands. Didn’t close my eyes like the pictures say. I just whispered into the dark like it might answer back. Not even words, really. Fragments. A name. A sigh. A maybe. Half a prayer sounds like someone trying not to disappear while asking not to be saved too loudly. Because hope can feel dangerous when you’ve watched it break before. So I didn’t ask for everything. Didn’t dare reach that far. Just asked for enough. Enough strength to get through morning. Enough mercy to outlast the memory. Enough light to see one step ahead and not panic. And somewhere between the silence and the almost something shifted. Not thunder. Not angels. Not certainty. Just a small warmth in the hollow place where fear used to echo louder. Half a prayer won’t make headlines. But sometimes it’s the bravest thing a tired heart can give. And maybe God has always understood a truth we forget: You don’t need perfect faith to be heard. Sometimes half a prayer is still fully seen. By Jason Strickland