Silence is Death
Silence is a room with no windows,
where thoughts knock and never get answered.
It is a tongue folded inward,
bleeding words it refused to release.
Silence is not peace—
it is the heavy kind of quiet
that sits on the chest like stone,
teaching the heart to forget its own rhythm.
It is the scream that never became sound,
the truth that died on the edge of a lip,
the apology never spoken,
the love never confessed,
the pain never named.
Silence is death in slow motion—
not the ending that arrives once,
but the one that keeps arriving daily,
each time you choose not to speak.
It grows in the corners of relationships,
feeds on unasked questions,
and becomes a graveyard of “I should have said…”
where voices go to rot in memory.
And yet, people call it strength,
as if drowning in yourself is noble,
as if swallowing fire
does not eventually burn the inside hollow.
But life was never meant to be muted.
Even the wind argues with the trees.
Even oceans refuse stillness.
So speak—
even if your voice shakes,
even if your truth costs comfort,
even if the world does not clap for it.
Because silence may look like safety,
but too often,
silence is simply death
wearing a calm face.
©® Coker Favour A.
May 11
May 11, 2026 at 3:21 PM UTC
Silence is Death
Silence is a room with no windows,
where thoughts knock and never get answered.
It is a tongue folded inward,
bleeding words it refused to release.
Silence is not peace—
it is the heavy kind of quiet
that sits on the chest like stone,
teaching the heart to forget its own rhythm.
It is the scream that never became sound,
the truth that died on the edge of a lip,
the apology never spoken,
the love never confessed,
the pain never named.
Silence is death in slow motion—
not the ending that arrives once,
but the one that keeps arriving daily,
each time you choose not to speak.
It grows in the corners of relationships,
feeds on unasked questions,
and becomes a graveyard of “I should have said…”
where voices go to rot in memory.
And yet, people call it strength,
as if drowning in yourself is noble,
as if swallowing fire
does not eventually burn the inside hollow.
But life was never meant to be muted.
Even the wind argues with the trees.
Even oceans refuse stillness.
So speak—
even if your voice shakes,
even if your truth costs comfort,
even if the world does not clap for it.
Because silence may look like safety,
but too often,
silence is simply death
wearing a calm face.
©® Coker Favour A.
Request permission to use this poem