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13h • Share your Poems
Half a Prayer
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
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Half a Prayer
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