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Nat Lipstadt Jul 2021
a thousand years ago, wrote a poem called
“why I always carry tissues”  -
a labor of love to
mine own toddlers misadventures,
requiring love covered in tissues so soft,
yet an ironclad coating
of natural substantive parenting
useful for tearing eyes, running noses,
and the cuts of living outdoors joyously

children grow older and oft that means,
they seek not your counsel,
and if offered, politely ignored,
for so it goes tween fathers and sons

then one summer days you receive an
observation, a datapoint that irradiates,
a quiet confirmation that not everything
you’ve said and done has gone astray

a young’un of “almost ten,” informs her father,
around the luncheon table of three generations,
that her foot is hurting; the son, now the father,
diagnosis renders, a blister, which will require
a protective custody that will protect the child’s
feet from the ravages of furious Shell Beach fun,
or the rough of a Manhattan sidewalk

I watch with a joy so quiet and so overwhelming,
as the son-father reaches into a cargo pocket,
producing not one but two bandaids, for life
requires backups for there are other babes about,
who at moments notice, produce scrapes and cuts
of ever greater consequence for each year they age

his wife renders me overjoyed, when she dryly
observe how certain children are lucky that
their father always carries bandaids, a new factoid,
for me, an unknown that glistens like a wet shell

now my eyes tearing, for a message in a bandaid,
or a tissue no matter which, is a certified proof,
somehow a message got through the clutter,
marked “well received,” that loving well requires
an oh so very hard attention to details, and that deep pockets
are repositories of good notions, handed down generations

June 24, 2021

Shell Beach
flamingogirl Oct 2020
You always ask me
what I'm thinking of
and I must admit
if you knew my
true thoughts
you will never see
me the same again.

Constantly I am
thinking about
how I could
possibly feel
beautiful at night
when I eat anything
during the day.

I can't tell you this
because you might
worry for me.
You would say
I am beautiful always.

While this helps
it feels as though
you are putting
a band-aid on
a cavernous wound.
One that was small
many years ago,
but recently was infected,
left untreated and
ignored because of
how ugly it is to me.
I am embarrassed
that I love you more
then I love myself.

So I won't reveal
what I'm truly thinking
to you ever.
Instead I smile,
blush even,
and say I cannot
stop thinking of you.
Jaxey May 2019
you words leave me with wounds
deeper than bargained for
and i seem to be out
of band aids
Luna Wrenn Mar 2019
i bought the brightest colors of bandages from the drug store,
i put them all over the the scrapes you left on my skin.
i wrote on top of them with a sharpie.
all the words you said, so everyone knows why i’m hurt.
kiran goswami Feb 2019
Poetry is not the blood you bleed,
Poetry is the bandaid you need.
N E Waters Nov 2015
I am an open wound in a world of bandaids
Galbraith Frase Dec 2017
Paper cut,
Criticizing the amount of aches
And several heartbreaks
Alone, will it survive?

A blank sheet could've been so plain,
To cause a hissing pain
Through the skin, it climbed

Paper cut,
Raw demons under our beds
Messed up thoughts in our heads
Coincidences, it's going to make--you wonder why you even try

Velvet tinted fingertips
Each touch may vary to lost a grip
How does the love runs dry?

Paper cut,
A fountain claw has it senses
Has the right to demonstrate its defenses,
Creating our "must-haves" above the gleaming stars

Burried promises and surfaced platforms drew a raid,
Choked out confessions became my aid,
Will you be able to clean the scars?

Paper cut,
Scrolling a list of autumn lies
Scanning with my blood-shot eyes
All these nightmares are in under attack

Just because I told you what and how I felt,
Doesn't mean my wounds needed help,
Please, do not expect my swollen lips to say "I Love You" back
My "Gianni & Kyle" playlist is on
Janae Jul 2017
I trusted you
I believed that you had my back
thinking about it now
there was none of that

I was yours and one day
you left me
you lied
and you hurt me more
than I ever knew you could

I don't know why
and I don't care
because nothing could fix
the bond we shared
Sarah Apr 2017
What can only be described as the sound of velcro being ripped away from felt, was similar to the way I ached when you walked away.

Quick  almost painless but a slow burn as the feeling settled.
Then, nothingness.

But as I try to peel the bandaid away like my protective shield being dropped. The wound you left isn't as visible.

If I press hard enough, my faded memories come back.

pain that I know all too well.

Then I realize no matter how hard I try to heal, the sensation will always be prominent. The scar may be gone but your dark memory lingers.
Written 5/15/16
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