The Truth Is
Image is from Google
Death by suicide, they say, is selfish, A weak move, a sin against God's will. It defies the norms—social, cultural, political— It disrupts the rhythm of every day.
At the last straw, with family looking up to you, When you have nothing left to give, How strong can one truly be? Is this, too, God's will?
The social, cultural, political eyes— They watch, they judge, they criticize, With arms folded or akimbo, Never reaching, only observing.
Life is not fair; I’ve told this to little ones. The world’s wrath begins even before conception. Born into the wrong place, the wrong time, Among the wrong people—what is the right one anyway?
The mind fractures under the weight: Unseen battles, relentless thoughts, A cacophony of failures, expectations unmet, Whispers louder than screams.
It’s not weakness—it’s exhaustion, The culmination of countless moments, Where the future feels like a closed door, And the present, an unbearable burden.
The truth is, the mind grows silent, Not seeking hope, not asking for help. Just a longing for stillness, For the pain to stop.
