They say ‘time is a great healer,’ but is it really? Or is it merely a suppressor? A poem about how pain is slowly silenced and confined to the limits of the darkness of the night, but never completely healed:
Each night as the dawn starts to set, The pain builds in her chest. She knows she should be asleep, And get some rest.
She holds her wet pillow, Tight when no one is there. And cries out loud, For the ones she loved and lost, She screams within herself.
Others see her during the day, And think she is okay. But as the night sets in, She slips into her own help.
Time hasn’t cured the pain at all, Or silenced her fear, So each night in bed, She shed tears.