We hardly need experience to express
the words often prescribed to confess
generic prophecies of the best advice
our lives have churned, in time’s test
to produce the contrived anecdote
to our brokenheartedness, the epidemic
we are less likely than colds to suppress-
and everyone has an idea for the cure.
These doses, though tough to swallow,
get handed out like candy from a bottle.
Substance abuse has grown full-throttle
and well past the range of innocent age
to truly understand the pain, the ache
of real love fallen victim to heartbreak.
Words have lost luster to such tongue play-
everyone has their own mind to make.
This plague of loose lips is fear’s display
of saying something wrong, too soon
or not soon enough to hold on to “the one.”
No age is immune to its suffering sting;
or the advice served up as its pitied refrain.
No new vials have we to try, no trial
of drugs to incapacitate, emulate denial-
everyone could stand to use a good cry.
Heartache happens, and nothing said
completely destroys the pain or takes it away
but statements made can temporarily alleviate-
at least numb an open wound’s sting
to a first degree burn, a misunderstanding
that still needs recognition, addressing to heal
-attention and concern of the infliction,
because it hurts to hear nothing at all.