The Efficient Band-Aid

When silence is a Remedy

The Efficient Band-Aid

When asked for a band-aid

Grandmother never said a word
just kiss the ouchie and put a band-aid on it.
Only she’s not here to administer her silent remedy.

And I’ve grown too old and a hell of a lot more jaded
to hold out the bleeding heart to be 'kissed all better'.

But sometimes the silence is enough
And solitude ...
when those who care
are mindful enough to give it

And stop trying to mend what will
only fracture again.

Broken. Damaged. Repaired.
A never ending cycle.
Until Death finally calls.
Wounded, until the aching becomes internal scarring.
I think inside I’m disfigured.
And I don’t ask for the reason.

I don’t think it matters.
When pain is real,
Edification won’t make it any less.

Tragedy is a private experience.
Hurting is a personal event.
And well-wishers,
Those who kindly offer condolences,
Tend to forget

That...

Speech is intrusive.
Words are detonated explosive devices.
Hugs meant to comfort,
choke the life from lungs.
And “I’m sorry’s”
Are pieces of shrapnel imbedded in the chest.
And well, “I’m sorry too”
Because now, I can’t breathe.

Silence is my sure fix.
Not because I’m a martyr.
Self-sacrifice ain’t my thang.
I’m selfish with my pain.

And it’s...

Not because I must be strong.
Strength too-often fails.
Legs buckle under sorrow’s weight.
Blood is water.
The lower lip trembles.
Inside, the quaking never stops.
Mentally, a broken spirit sobs.
All within a box, marked ... ‘hurtful things.’

It is truly ... an unspectacular event.

I just don’t want ...

The “it’ll get betters”.
Because it rarely does ...
hurt always lingers.

I just don’t need ...

The ‘I know how you feels’.
I’m never quite sure my self
Moment to moment what’s inside.

Let it alone. I’ve got my own cure.
Quiet is a merciful angel.
Inner solitude knows, verbal expression is not a healer.

The tongue cannot be allowed to crack.
Or the injury becomes all the more intolerable.
Screams might one day erupt forward.
And never stop with the Wail of

Why? Why? Why?

And then the breaking would come.
And wounds never fully healed,
Would burst and bleed ... forever.

Exsanguination would exhaust.
Such precious loss of flow, unaffordable.

“Why” is never a good question.
The answer could never lessen the harm,
Only quantify it, until the spirit cascades.

And truthfully, I wouldn’t want to know.
So for now...

Silence is an efficient band-aid.

Author's Note

Just an odd bit of ramble while in the mood of bitter funk

Reviews

[laceyjane23]

wow! what a powerful poem!! you put a lot of emotion into it and you know what you speak the truth that no one rarely ever does, people in pain sometimes just want silence.... at some point i think everyone gets sick of the "it will get betters" but on the same note sometimes they help =)
laceyjane