WMHD2026 Poem Collection
Kashaf Ul Eman
They speak of days the world could never see,
Of silent battles shaping who they’d be,
Of words they swallowed, fearing they’d be judged,
Of doors once closed, of voices left unheard.
They know the weight of being misunderstood,
Of hearing, “It’s nothing,” when nothing felt good,
Of wearing a smile so no one would ask,
While carrying questions beneath every mask.
So let them speak;not as stories to share,
But as voices that belong in the room, there.
For no decision about them should be made
Without hearing the truths their own lives have laid.
They know what the waiting rooms feel like inside,
The questions they feared, the moments they cried,
The help that arrived too late or unsure,
And the kindness that helped them endure.
Their experiences are more than the past,
They are lessons that can help change what lasts.
Let their voices shape policies and care,
Let lived experience become something we share.
And challenge the whispers that turn pain into shame,
The careless assumptions that deepen the blame.
Mental health is human; it asks us to see
The person behind every struggle we meet.
Don't speak over them; make space at the table,
Believe that their insight is powerful and valuable.
For change doesn't begin with a slogan or name;
It begins when we listen, and listening becomes action.
A world can grow kinder when people are heard,
When compassion is followed by meaningful words.
Real voices can guide us, real stories can show,
That change becomes possible when we choose to know.
So listen to voices once pushed out of sight,
Give dignity room, give understanding its light.
For when lived experiences are finally heard,
Real people make change; not just policies or words.
Rima Killa
A celebrity puts on weight is defended or trolled
A common woman puts on weight as a loser called
Weight gain is never her wish
Hence to judge her don't be foolish
Looks are obviously admired if good
But merely looks won't serve me food
I have works to do and toil to struggle
That's not a excuse but a juggle
Let me be free to be mine structure
Please educate yourself before a judgemental nature.
Aishath Falak Ahmed Fazeel
Counting backwards.
Naming all that I could see.
Deep breaths, longer exhales.
The things that usually quiet the storm.
This time, none of them reached me.
My chest tightened in a familiar way.
Each breath grew shorter than the last.
Sweat mixed with tears.
Hands clenched, fingers aching.
The room swayed beneath me, knees weak.
Yet I was still rocking her to sleep.
Still swaying through the trembling.
Still the warmth she melted into.
Still her safe embrace.
Still shielding her from the storm within me.
Still her comfort.
Still her mom.
And somehow, between uneven breaths and a heart that would not slow, she slept peacefully against me, trusting me completely.
And I held her just the same.
Mariyam Zifaar Zaheen
Depression dawns on me,
Everyday, all the time, I keep myself distracted,
Reading about worlds I want to live in,
Writing about love I wish was real,
All it takes is a second of nothing,
And reality sets back in,
Like a violent tsunami,
Suffocating me into its depths,
Better this, than the empty hollowness,
Living feels like a chore,
Forcing smiles that don't feel right,
When did I last feel truly happy?
Be whole and feel like myself,
Now everyday is excruciating,
Is this fleeting or the new me?
Nazan Abdulla
Every 15 days, red drips into me like clockwork.
Every 3 to 6 months, I get pricked and prodded like clockwork.
Every 1 to 2 years, I get scanned, feeling claustrophobic.
Yet I smile. Like all is fine with the world.
Like I deserve these pains and aches.
But what did I do to deserve this?
Just because my parents carried a genetic trait.
Well, they didn’t know back then.
But now you do.
Don’t let another suffer because of your choices.
Every future. Every dream they have and imagine— they might have to reject because of your decision.
Because you didn’t get checked by medical professionals.
You didn’t heed their advice.
You just had to love someone with the same genetic traits.
Thought it wouldn’t happen to us.
Why didn’t you heed the advice? Why didn’t you follow the science?
In this day and age, things like this shouldn’t happen.
They should be preventable.
How many hours spent in hospitals and medical facilities?
How many marriages strained or failed due to the burden of a sick child?
And what was the child’s fault? It’s your fault.
You decided for the child. You call this love. I call it a curse.
An inheritance that acts like a knife— hurting, breaking, threatening to kill.
How many warnings? How many times will you risk an unborn child?
How many times will you try for a “non-defective” child, when the statistics are clear: every 1 in 4 children will inherit the curse. Another 1 in 2 will carry the curse.
They say prevention is better than cure. But what happens when there are no rules for prevention?
And then you bring religion into this mess.
Islam forbids taking a life—the same religion you used to get married and now see this mess.
Some inherit generational wealth.
Some inherit genetic defects.
Some inherit the weight of choices they never made.
Aisha
Trigger warning: self harm
I did everything I could but you see it in a different way.
like it's all "for attention" and "to make others feel bad"
"she cut herself to make us feel bad for yelling at her" is what you would say if i cut myself and if you knew
as if there is no possible reason why anyone would cut themselves except for "attention"
and that's why I want to cut myself on my thigh and on my chest because those were places they wouldn't see so they couldn't call me an attention seeker
but secretly I'd hope that you would see the marks above the neckline of my shirt, and see that i am not okay and get the help that you don't believe I need
it's not about you, its not me looking for your attention it's about me I'm worried about me because things going on around me affect me more than you know
I wish you found out about the self-harm about the writings on my skin about looking out the window and about whatever comes to mind when i hold a knife
but i cant tell you because you'll think it's for attention the reason I record my symptoms - my breakdowns, the times when i think of self harm or suicide is not for attention but because I want to observe what's happening to me and why it's happening because I'm concerned about myself if this keeps going on i dont know how long i can take this until i start actually cutting my skin...
and doing worse and getting insane
today I did everything to avoid it, you know it took me all my willpower to not strangle my neck or get a blade and pierce my heart i know i would fail to reach the heart but my hands are about to automatically mimic the movement or clutch the skin of my chest today I did everything to avoid it, you know it took me all my willpower to not look out the window, or to not entertain the thoughts.
or do an impulsive thing like cut my hair or hurt myself.
oh yeah i KNOW self harm and suicide are bad
and you told me those are only things ppl do for attention but it's like my body and mind are separate my mind knows these facts but my body acts of its own and it takes everything to stop her i promise. i promise I wouldn't do it if I was sane. and I tried my absolute best to stop it from happening.
but my body refused to pretend nothing was happening to her. refused to act as if the events, just then, had not happened. who's here to comfort her and tell her "you're brave for resisting"?
because do you know how hard that was? ...
today my body refused to act as if the events didnt just happen. she refused to be normal and unaffected and instead the temperature rose and almost got a fever. one way or another, it showed an outwardly sign of not being okay. ...
was that enough? ...
no, you still didnt magically see the internal struggle i was going through you didnt know why i felt ill or you did, (i can't tell,) and pretended not to
so what was all that struggle worth? all that resisting? you couldnt pretend anymore that i was okay i hope you don't think... that i got sick for attention... because you finally did give me attention...
no i am NOT trying to make you feel bad or tryna guilt trip you into being sorry. because YOU chose to be lenient after seeing my state i wasn't "crying to get my way" so above my concern for myself my life, my afterlife, my sanity i have to worry about whether you think its for attention or not.
Aishath Laisa Ali
I made a mistake.
Just one.
But somehow, one mistake became a reason for everyone to look at me differently.
I was bullied. Targeted.
Made to feel like the worst thing I had ever done was the only thing I would ever be.
So I left.
I was young, and I left home to study because staying had become too painful.
Everyone called it a new beginning.
But nobody tells you that you can move somewhere new and still carry the old pain in your chest.
I carried the whispers.
The stares.
The things people said.
And most of all, I carried the belief that maybe I deserved them.
I wanted to prove that I could still become something.
So I studied.
Or at least, I tried to.
But my mind was already tired.
My results began to fall.
And with every mark I lost, I felt like I was losing another piece of myself.
Then came depression.
Then came the kind of pain you don’t know how to explain without feeling ashamed of it.
And eventually, I hurt myself. I wish I could tell that younger version of me that she didn’t deserve to become her own punishment for one mistake.
That she was still a person.
Still worthy.
Still someone’s daughter.
Still worthy of love.
Then my results came out.
They were terrible.
And I already knew what I imagined my parents were thinking.
We are disappointed in you.
But the cruelest voice wasn’t theirs.
It was mine.
Because I had started believing every bad thing I had ever heard about myself.
So I left again. Another place. Another chance.
And somehow I still couldn’t escape myself.
I failed. Then failed again.
And every failure felt like proof that everyone had been right about me.
That maybe I really was a disappointment.
That maybe I really was too difficult to love.
Because even relationships seemed to end the same way.
People came close. I let them see me. And eventually, they left.
So I started asking myself:
Am I too much? Too emotional. Too damaged. Too difficult. Too full of memories I can’t forget.
But maybe- maybe I am not too much.
Maybe I have simply been carrying too much for too long.
Maybe the girl who made a mistake didn’t need punishment.
Maybe she needed help.
Maybe the girl who was bullied didn’t need to become smaller.
Maybe she needed someone to stand beside her.
Maybe the student who kept failing didn’t need another reminder of what she couldn’t do.
Maybe she needed someone to ask, “What happened to you?” instead of, “What is wrong with you?”
And maybe that is why I am telling this story now.
Because I don’t want my worst mistake to become my whole identity.
I don’t want my grades to be my obituary.
I don’t want every goodbye to become evidence that I am impossible to love.
I want my voice to mean something.
I want people like me to be heard before they reach the point where silence becomes dangerous.
And I want that younger girl who packed her bags and thought she was leaving because she wasn’t good enough- to know something I am only beginning to understand myself:
You were never too much. You were a hurting girl trying to survive with nowhere safe to put her pain.
And you deserved to be heard.
Shireen
Left in the dreary lanes of existential thoughts,
I longed to seek the fresh breath of living emotions,
Lost in the dark alleys of misery,
I searched in the inky blank by lanes of despair,
Where could I find the path of new thinking,
Could I find the destination?
The unmasking led to the discovery of a new life,
Waiting to be unraveled by my thought processes,
But too terrified of being unveiled,
Would the mask slip at the masquerade ball of pretense,
Would the chapter of life allow,
A new lease of joyful living to begin!
Could fear be unleashed,
To break all bonds!
Could I be resilient, Could might be my soulmate?
Once again!
Rashmi Bhumireddy
I am not a box
As I love to merge
Into every area I come across
But people don't love it
I am not a box
For I am not born like it
Spreading my creativity
Which people find difficult
To fit me in
For people love to categorise
To box me in
Unlike a star
Which is beyond their reach
Shining its true self
Without being boxed
Varun Dhingra
There is an anarchist that lives inside me
They used to call her anxiety
Psychiatrists, psychologists and quacks
Whose plush clinics I used to visit
A convert visiting church on Sundays
Suspicious in his new found faith
Blue yellow white pills
They prescribed
All colors coalesced in a dark smudge
As they traversed the labyrinth of my mind
The anarchist, I found, was an acquaintance
The younger, more restless sister of depression, my old friend
She grew up so fast I didn't realise when
Like a termite, she silently entered inside the damp, wooden vault of my mind
One day, I heard her milling about
Self-appointed lady of the house
The vault, she had sealed
Its treasures concealed
Infested, they lay sparkless
As days turned to years
Inside the vault's darkness
Inside the vault walls echoed loudly, day and night
Treasures shrank to a corner in the noise
Of work unfinished
Of words that came out all wrong
Of thought waves crashing into each other
One day, a silent savior arrived
Sent to rescue by the Christ
Gently, poetry tiptoed in the dark
Gradually, it revealed forgotten light
The dark vault revelled Its treasures shone again
The anarchist's unruly head, now bare bone
At her feet, lifeless, her upturned throne
She still finds breath, at times
In the reignited embers of my mind
No longer the force she used to be
The flame of poetry burns bright
Scatters in the dark, its holy light
The anarchist's arrival was pre-ordained
Her ugly head will rise again, I am all too aware
Poetry too, however,
Was on the cards
I watch their battle from a distance
No longer intrigued by the outcome
Hiding from the world
My poetry
My anarchy Siamese twins
My destined progeny
Hafsah Abdullahi Hassan
I built a world because the one I was given had no room for the person I was becoming.
So I gathered the broken pieces— a little hope from yesterday, some courage I had forgotten beneath my bed, and the dreams I kept folded inside the pages of unfinished books.
I built walls from silence, windows from imagination, and doors that opened only when I wanted to be found.
In my world, the sky never asked me to shrink.
The moon never questioned why I was awake.
And the stars— they never laughed when I told them I wanted more.
I gave the world a name no one else could pronounce.
I gave it streets where every road led somewhere beautiful, and houses where loneliness was not invited to dinner.
I populated it with versions of myself— the brave one, the loved one, the one who never stammered when she had something to say.
Perhaps that was why I built it.
Not to escape life, but to experience the life I could not find.
For a while, it was enough. I woke there. I dreamed there. I became someone there.
Until one evening I noticed something frightening: I had stopped building windows.
I was building walls. Higher. Thicker. Closer.
The world I created to protect me had begun to protect me from the world.
And suddenly, my beautiful kingdom felt like a beautifully decorated cage.
So I left. Not because the world had become ugly, but because I had finally become brave enough to meet the world I once feared.
I left the streets I invented. I left the people who existed only because I needed them to.
I left the version of myself who could survive only in fiction.
And I carried nothing with me except the lesson: Sometimes we create another world because this one hurts too much.
And sometimes, we must create enough courage to leave that world too.
Not every distance is measured in miles.
Some distances are measured by the space between who we were and who we finally dared to become.
And perhaps that is why I walked away— not because I stopped loving the world I made, but because I had finally learned how to live without hiding inside it.
Majesty Precious Chisom
A drop
A drizzle
A flow
Drowning
Heart beating
Mind whirling
Body out of control
Choices wide
Remaining dormant
Counting minutes, Hours, Days, Weeks, Months,
Rapid fall and rise of the chest
Nothing changes
Yes Why the difference
Turmoil has narrowed the road
You can't see the direction
Which route
Fear of mistakes
Nothing changes
You are shaking
Tearing up
Heart is sinking
No mercy for the soul
Nothing changes
I should have
Should I have
Can I have
Would I have
They are up here
I am down here
Anything to make a difference
Yet remain still
Slowed breaths
Closed eyes
Mumbling, Muttering Whispering
Afraid of who what should I be
How has it gone to this
Am I to fade with no trace
Mingling with the wind
Eventually sucked into oblivion
Chirpings constant cautions;
You definitely will
If you remain still
I know Why still Still.
Hiya Thanki
I am not happy, even in joy’s embrace, for my heart still lingers in a shadowed space.
In moments of laughter, I wear a mask, a smile concealing what I dare not ask.
I am tangled in thoughts that quietly bind, a restless storm within my mind.
Each whisper of hope, each unspoken plea, lost in a silence only I can see.
I could never speak what my soul longs to say, for words fall apart and fade away.
My wishes, my dreams—left to decay, buried within, where they silently stay.
I keep them hidden, locked in tight, afraid of their weight, the depth of the fight.
Yet in the quiet, they rise, they burn… will I ever find the strength to return?
Aminath Shifna Mohamed
What am I when no one is there to witness me?
Am I still real if my name isn’t spoken, if my laughter dissolves before it reaches another ear?
I cling to the ledge, tell me, what am I holding onto?
The cold stone beneath my fingers, or the last thin thread of being known?
My hands tremble.
Is it fear of falling, or the quieter terror that nothing waits below and nothing calls me back?
Who taught me that my weight was too much for the world to bear?
The wind presses against me, insistent, questioning,
Why stay? it asks.
Why suffer this ache in my arms, this burning in my chest, this endless in-between?
And I answer, don’t I? Even if only in silence: Because I was here. Because I felt things.
Because something in me refuses to vanish quietly.
But what is that “something”? A soul? A memory not yet made?
Or just defiance, raw and human, clawing against the dark?
There are lacerations I carry— not in skin, but deeper, where my heart learned to split without ever making a sound.
Each one a quiet fracture, each one a story that never finished healing.
And in that damage, there is stasis. not peace, not rest, but the stillness of being caught between what hurt me and what I cannot yet leave behind.
A suspended moment where time forgets to move forward, and I am left holding myself together with nothing but breath and memory.
My grip slips.
Did I choose this moment? Or did the world loosen me, grain by grain, until even hope couldn’t find a place to stand?
If existence is only a question, was I ever meant to answer it?
I fall. And as the ledge leaves my hands, one final thought burns brighter than the fear, brighter than the void: If I had been held— just once, just enough— would I have stayed?
Azka Ibrahim
I lived inside this space before I knew its name
Until the colours faded and the world turned gray
I watched myself become a stranger overnight
As dark shadows blocked away my light
While others soared, and conquered at life
They got perfect grades, and friends along the line
A single open book became a wall to me
Then one by one, the friends I had begun to leave
Nobody truly knew,
Noone stayed to grieve
My life fell apart like scattered Jenga blocks
Behind a hidden smile, behind a thousand locks
I try so hard to hide the heavy pain I keep
But the thorns and jagged shards of glass are cutting me too deep
Decisions became a maze, exhausting and severe
Even simple choices tread behind a hidden fear
So now I rarely try, or listen to my thoughts
And silently agree what others say
Now step by step we should reach for light
And rebuild piece by piece, with others help.
Noor Ul Huda
Have you ever felt it?
The voice rising to your throat, but never finding its way out.
Eyes red and brimming, yet holding back the tears.
Everything fading into a blur. Breath refusing to come. Heart growing heavy.
Your own body giving up on you, screaming from the inside, but normal on the outside, your body shivering constantly, with no control over it.
The feeling of being left out,
The feeling of being unwanted,
The feeling of not being enough,
The feeling of being alone in a room full of people.
The feeling of dying while still breathing,
The feeling of not breathing properly, but no one understands.
The feeling of food in your mouth, but forgetting how to swallow it.
The feeling of emptiness,
The feeling of believing you're the problem.
The feeling of heart beating faster,
The feeling of crying constantly, without any reason.
While only one voice echoes in your ears — "She's just being dramatic. She's mental. She's always like this. She has nothing else to do."
Have you ever felt it?
sahana s
The sound of waves reminds me of their voices, voices once hidden beneath the noise, voices of pain, of courage, of survival, voices that deserve to be heard.
The shine of waves reminds me of their eyes, eyes that have seen the darkest nights, yet still search for a little light.
The rhythm of waves reminds me of their hearts, hearts that beat through anxiety, through fear, through loneliness, through days when simply breathing felt like an achievement.
But, The calmness of waves reminds me of the silence we ask them to carry,
“Be strong.” “Don’t talk about it.” “People will judge you.”
So their voices disappear, not because they have nothing to say, but because we never stopped to listen.
The softness of the waves reminds me of the kindness they needed but were denied, a hand instead of a label, an ear instead of advice, understanding instead of judgement.
And the stillness of the waves reminds me of the decisions made without them, about their lives, their care, their future.
So let the waves speak.
Let those who have lived through the storm help shape the shore.
Let their experiences become part of the decisions, their stories become part of the change, and their voices become part of the solution.
Because mental health is not a story to hide.
It is a story to hear.
And when we truly listen to the voices of those who have lived it, we do more than challenge stigma, we change the tide.
Oninthough
Grief ushers in like rivers at the break of monsoon; no warnings, no lifeboats.
No rain checks either. It comes all at once.
Before you blink it has you in a chokehold.
You try to put it to words.
But grief is not the loss of words; it is the loss of the meaning of them.
Your throat knots.Your tongue dries. You drink water. It feels no different.
You wish you could erupt into laments, into screams, into torrential downpours.
But the forecast says overcast skies. No chance of rain. So you perspire instead.
Earlobes warm. Insides parched. A season changing inside the body.
The kind that keeps you awake through the night, bedsheets damp, as if the skin erupted because the eyes could not.
Grief has definitions. Definitions have boundaries.
And what is bound eventually runs out of breadth and breath.
But what do you call it when miserable indifference becomes your primordial instinct?
Not feeling. Instinct.
Feeling belongs to language. Instinct belongs to survival.
What do you call it when sleep each night feels like sinking another inch into an unfathomable abyss, and morning feels like swimming towards a shore in the middle of an ocean that refuses to move closer?
Every night the inches add up.
Every morning you are exactly where you began: dead centre of a bottomless sea.
There is rage. There is pity. There is loathing. There is pathos.
And beyond all of it, hope.
But hope is light.
And when you have lived with the lights out for days and weeks and months, sunlight feels like assault.
Hope is different for the floating and the sinking.
Not drowning. Sinking.
Drowning is sudden. Sinking is patient. Measured.
As if time itself has decided to take its time with you.
For the sinking ones, drowning is hope.
It refuses the slow-burning road to a conclusion.
Befitting or not is irrelevant.
Some semicolons are kinder as full stops.
You wish you could act on it.
The terrain is familiar. You have been here before. You have tried before.
But this time you cannot gather yourself even for that.
Even when the water is already at your ears.
Even when letting go might be the only mercy.
If mercy exists.
So you resist sleep, because every good night is another inch deeper into the abyss.
And yet when sleep arrives you hope there will be no more mornings.
But time is terribly patient.
And the one thing killing you is the only thing keeping you alive.
Your cancer is your cure.
Mohamed Kiyaan Sharim
Wherever I go, they linger and stalk
They creep up in my morning coffee, they creep within the corners of my bedroom
Boom! Crack! Snap! I Turn around and yet there’s nothing
And yet, like rumbling, gloomy clouds, they hover over my as if to signal an impending doom
Circling around my like a ravenous hawk
They cling to me like tar leeches, sucking out the life in me
Even the shimmering sunlight can never overcome their induced blue
Sometimes, I can feel the posion etched by your scathin comments or the burning in my cheek because of some silly squabble
How they came to plaque my life, I wish I knew
In the worst under wretched twilights, I wonder if I could be free
The shadows shackle me with chains heavy as the cruel world
Forged by corrosive, poisonous words and linked by shameful scars
They burden me with a storm of painful memories whirling about me
Condemning me to a life as a prisoner behind tyrannical bars
Where in the fiery pits of previous realms of hell I am to be tortured and burned
You put your saintly visage and your white blindfold
Pretending all is sunshine and ponies
But the child in me can’t and won’t forget
How you brought upon me and my caged mother many tragedies
Leaving upon us many scars of old
What crime did we commit to deserve such nitpicking and torture?
Was it because we sang the wrong note? Was it because we marched the wrong way?
No, rather it was due to a twisted sense of love inflicted upon you by your kin
We still loved you despite bringing us to dismay
Because you carried a calm raincloud along with your hurricane of disorder
One day, I catch a glimpse of your portrait where you hold me like a teddy bear
Then comes flashes of the roaring and beating black and blue
Your bitter words choke me like a venomous snake and your corrective glare burns deep into my fragile soul
I loved you once, but now I fear you
The searing heat of childhood fear is more than I can bear
Head is spinning, blood’s running cold
Chest tightens while heart goes wild
God, have mercy on your suffocating, misunderstood slave
And deliver me from this hellish torment
Through herculean will, I cling to my remaining sanity
I look through watery eyes and think
“This can’t go on like this.” “Someone needs to understand my plight”
I dial a number faster than I could blink
“You have reached ICP services. What is your emergency?”
Mitansh Katarya
Left and right, wrapped and intertwined
Trembles and trills, none so still to find
Threads strangle her brain
A perpetual thought rain.
Say they often, "one step at a time",
But sweet as sugar; or sour as lime
No drink ever, quenched that thirst I plead, give her water, when her fires burst.
Hollow phrases, leaving their traces "Let it all work out", that's their shout
But, lend ears to her call! Must she scale, that damned whim wall?
Lost in paper and pen, It is just about when
Embraced by her is a welcome peace Sitting in four walls,
Yet all the same; amongst lush trees.
Some musings float and smudge
Others intrude, prance, and trudge Eyes burning, lies churning "Yes, I'm fine", a freakishly false fudge.
Spying on it all, The moon's rise and the sun's fall She wails, a screaming quiver
And begs upon silence, to drown her in sleep's river.
Tomorrow, today, or years hence
As she peers back with nostalgia's lens
A laugh or a tear
Either or neither, that's her fear.
Ebenezer Vuyanzi
I usually lied and I was happy.
To back up my lie, I laughed at things that were not funny.
I lied that my life is beautiful and sunny.
Like the sun, normal, bright, and adorable, like a bunny.
I severely lied. I was fine.
To back up my lie, I behaved like a stress-free kid who's just nine.
I lied that my childhood was like fine wine.
I lied. I was grateful for everything that's mine.
I frequently lie that I do not cry.
To back up my lie, I washed my face dry.
I lied that suicide, self-harm, and stuff are never try.
I lied that I respected myself and knew why.
I lied that I don't need attention.
To back up my lie, I acted nonchalant at every mention.
I lied that I was unaffected by the comment section.
I lied that my self-esteem was high and I didn't need validation.
I lied, I'm a saint, I'm bound to go to heaven.
To back up my lie, I fought for things to be even.
I lied that my bedroom was a safe haven.
That I stand on my decision, but I'm just six ,seven .
I lied that I had friends.
To back up my lie, always make amends.
I lied I was unique, I don't chase trends.
I lied that I was busy on all the weekends. I lied that I'm not stressed.
To back up my lie, I searched how not to look depressed.
I lied that I'm not easily influenced.
I lied that I cannot be oppressed. I lied that I still have hope.
To back up my lie, I acted inspirational by encouraging everyone to cope.
I lied when you gave me chocolate and I said nope.
I lied that I'm cool and dope I lied, I'm tough.
To back up this lie, I acted rough.
I lied that it's funny,so I could laugh.
I lied that I'm not crying, it was just a cough.
I lied, I didn't want to be understood.
To back up my lie, I said it was all good.
I lied, I like having on my hood.
I lied when I said I knew what is bad and good.
I lied that I'm beautiful in this picture.
To back up my lie, I always said don't be insecure.
I lied when I acted so mature.
I lied that I looked forward to the future.
I lied that I'm not sad.
I can no longer back up all these lies, they are bad
Goodbye world ,goodbye mom and dad
If I rest in peace I will be glad
Brendan Donnelly
As he stands in the sun with a searing warmth on his shoulders, around the refuse, rocks and rubble, that sit with the stench of rotting corpses – He can feel it,
The pain, the fear, the sadness - countless souls who had felt utter helplessness when faced with annihilation here before
As his sweat drips across his brow and falls to the Earth, the soil is reminded of the salt filled blood that poured over its surface years before
Taking a breath in a moment that crosses between decades, he can only imagine the zip of bullets aimed towards foes, the rumble of explosions spraying particulate that could cut glass past the fresh of those that soldier on
Each member fighting, killing, marching to a creed that demands sacrifice, while these souls give their very bones to protect friends, families, brothers and strangers back home
While thousands believe in their cause, their very presence in this wasteland, brought on by political squabbles, that rupture as weak as foam
He absorbs the feelings, motionless as they overcome him, the Earth’s empathy for the remains that fell here, pull tears like rivers from his very essence
He weeps for those lost and thinks of those stories cut short for the extension of war, the protection of false pride
Falling to his knees, he hopes these souls have found peace and are returned their lost time, while those men who sent them to their demise, remain in power, each year wearing a new disguise
The sharp sand and pebbles under his hands slicing reminders into him, for his body, his mind, and his soul to carry on for those trapped as apparitions in their Earthly graves
As he departs this horrific site, each step clicks a gear on Time’s watch, each moment of remembrance pausing so that every second humbles him, and he is branded with the knowledge of excruciating sacrifice.
Sara Mohtasim
There was a time, when I could disappear, without leaving the room.
I would sit among them, my name passing from mouth to mouth, my body answering when spoken to, while somewhere behind my eye, a door had quietly closed.
I became good at appearing whole.
Tea poured without spilling. A smile arriving on cue.
Laughter, half a breath behind everyone else's.
I learned to say nothing, until the word lost its edges.
At night, I kept the light on.
The house would settle around me, a pipe knocking in the wall, the ceiling fan turning its pale circle, someone turning in sleep.
I lay awake, watching shadows cross the ceiling, like things looking for somewhere, to disappear.
Morning came. I put myself on again.
Good morning. I'm fine. Just tired.
After enough years, even a lie can acquire the warmth of skin.
Then someone asked me, to tell them what had happened.
I looked at them. There were too many rooms, between then and now.
They asked for a history. I remembered faces. They asked for a cause.
I remembered the cup, I stopped lifting to my mouth, because my hand had begun to shake.
They asked when it started. I remembered a Tuesday. Nothing remarkable about it.
That may have been the cruelest part. A curtain drawn at noon. A phone ringing until the sound disappeared into the walls. A plate left untouched beside the sink.
Small things!
The kind nobody records. The kind that, gathered together, can quietly become a life.
Then the pen stopped. No more questions. No word placed, where my own should have been.
Someone looked at me and said,
Go on...
The room changed.
Not much!
Just enough for me to hear, how long I had been silent.
There was a chair beside the table. I sat down. The paper waited.
For once, no one wrote first.
So I did.
I wrote about the rooms. The faces. The Tuesday.
The things I had carried so carefully, they had begun to look like parts of me.
I wrote until my hand hurt.
Then I stopped.
No one spoke.
The clock kept ticking. The fan turned overhead.
Outside, someone called my name.
I looked toward the door. For a moment, I could not tell..
whether I had finally been called back, or whether, I had only imagined leaving.
Asmita Patwardhan
Pain has risen from within, and I wear it now like a shimmery patina, that coats me from head to toe.
It's aged like fine wine, and it wants to be seen and admired for its dark hues.
Its spectrum ranges from the dark patches in the crevices of my mind to the white glimmering light that shines in my laboriously smiling eyes.
It brings out every wrinkle, that's emerged from worry, hurt and despair.
And it gives depth to my endurance and zeal.
It showcases my imperfection, deformation and irreversible transformation.
What is the value of this veneer?
One might ask. It's valuable to me . . .
For, like Thoreau said, the price of my patina is the amount of life I exchanged for it.
Nisrin Hilwa
A white cloth that restrains my neck until my neck is bruised purple like needle cuts devouring my body.
My body begins to rot like a wilted flower because of that bond.
Will hell be more painful than my tears that continue to flow with every prayer?
My eyes that only see black and white with every step I take as the world begins to rot one by one.
My black hair that falls out as each strand falls into the fires of hell. "Is that what they want?"
The blood that pours from my eyes is like rainwater that wets the fertile soil.
My skin that begins to wither is like a parasite leaving its host.
My nails, devoured by rotting flies, are like the black and white I see every morning.
My retinas that peel until the ground swallows them, the tears that flow from my body are like the white cloth I wear in my hair.
Birds that kiss my body and devour it like the words of a glutton
With a religious doctrine that he can only sneer at with every step, without caring that his body is starting to rot because of his own words, rotting worms begin to attack his tongue like his sharp words, as if he were the one who truly judges our crown, and will accompany us and our family to hell with his tongue filled with rotting worms.
Baby Virgarose Nurmaya
I know what it is to be afraid of a room because someone else is in it.
I know what it is to learn the sound of footsteps, the change in a voice, the silence before something breaks.
I know what it is to turn pain against myself because for a while it felt easier than admitting someone had hurt me.
And yes, there were nights when disappearing felt less frightening than staying.
I won't dress that up for you.
I won't call it a lesson.
I won't call it a beautiful journey.
It was ugly. It was violent. It was real. And I survived it.
Not gracefully. Not because I was always strong.
Sometimes survival looked like locking the door.
Sometimes it looked like putting one more day between me and the edge.
Sometimes it looked like telling someone the truth when every part of me wanted to disappear.
So don't look at me with that careful sadness.
I am not your tragedy.
And don't turn my scars into proof that I am broken.
They are not an invitation to ask what happened.
They are not permission to tell my story for me.
I decide what my survival means.
And here is the part people don't always like: I am angry.
I am angry that violence taught me fear before the world taught me safety.
I am angry that survivors are asked why they stayed before anyone asks why someone hurt them.
I am angry that people whisper about suicide as if silence has ever saved a life.
I am angry that sometimes the person in crisis is the last person anyone actually listens to.
So listen now.
I am not asking to be rescued. I am asking to be heard.
I am asking to have a say in what happens to my life.
Because surviving does not make me a permanent patient.
It makes me the person who knows what it costs to stay alive.
And I am still here.
Not healed into something prettier. Not made inspirational for your comfort.
Still here. Still angry. Still choosing. Still mine.
And if that makes you uncomfortable... good.
Maybe discomfort is where listening finally begins.
Joanna Daniel Jeba
Shackled by the fetters of deep desperation,
Can't break it free, can't break it free,
My mind voice rises to the top of consternation,
Can't let it be, can't let it be,
Tackled by my disturbed mind's waking,
I shout and scream, I shout and scream,
Rewind the poise, my mind's now shaking,
I doubt and dream, I doubt and dream,
Delirious, I utter words of confusion,
Listen to me, listen to me,
Who will put an end to this delusion?
Just hear my plea, just hear my plea,
Serious, I mutter in the mad throes of my mind,
What to do now? What to do now? Clueless, I drill through my mind entwined,
Heal me somehow, heal me somehow.
N.kkongor
There are battles that aren’t make sound,
They hide under a smile,
While a wave of storms gather in the chest,
And the mind runs a thousand thoughts.
At night, their word grow silence,
The thoughts become only one listening,
Replaying words, rewriting moments,
Asking “What if?” beneath the cloud.
Loneliness can feel like an empty space,
Even when people’s they cares are standing near ,their heart can cry behind closed doors,
And still claims, “I'm fine, don't worry, much”.
Some carry invisible bruises, Some carry memories they cannot explain, Some wake up already exhausted,
As though they spent the night wrestling with pain.
But healing does not always arrive in a moment,
Like sunlight bursting through the rain.
Sometimes it is simply getting out of bed, pretending everything is fine, then breathing again.
Sometimes healing need some who listen and stayed, “I need someone to help.”
Sometimes it is letting the tears fall freely, Instead of hiding them away.
So be gentle with their soul, You never know the how deep they drowned,
A listening ear, a little kindness, sympathy,
May become a light on someone's darkest night.
Mental health is not weakness, or a problem,
And needing help is not shame.
Even the strongest hearts can tremble,
Even the burning souls can lose their flame.
So let us speak of the wounds unseen,
Of anxious nights and hearts that ache.
Let us make room for honest conversations,
And remind each other: it's okay not to be okay.
And if your heart feels lost tonight,
If the darkness feels crowded you ,
Remember -healing can begin gently .
With one small step toward peace.
You are more than your anxious, negative thoughts,
More than the nights you could not sleep, wakeup or eats,
You are still here, still learnings, still adjusting,still breathing,
And there is light beyond the deep storms.
You matter. You are seen. You are worthy of healing. And you don't have to fight alone.
Sharvari Narendra Parkar
Long ago you were a free bird,
Today why you're often scared of being heard?
Earlier you were a treasure of wonders
Nowadays you have turned a still idol that ponders.
Once you dreamt of sketching the skies with hearts & kisses,
Perhaps, now you worry about everything the heart misses.
Once you were my friend, today are we enemies?
Never imagined you and I will be here carrying all dead memories.
Can we be friends ever again? Do you remember the last time we enjoyed the rain?
Nisrin Hilwa
A white cloth that restrains my neck until my neck is bruised purple like needle cuts devouring my body.
My body begins to rot like a wilted flower because of that bond.
Will hell be more painful than my tears that continue to flow with every prayer?
My eyes that only see black and white with every step I take as the world begins to rot one by one.
My black hair that falls out as each strand falls into the fires of hell.
"Is that what they want?"
The blood that pours from my eyes is like rainwater that wets the fertile soil.
My skin that begins to wither is like a parasite leaving its host.
My nails, devoured by rotting flies, are like the black and white I see every morning.
My retinas that peel until the ground swallows them, the tears that flow from my body are like the white cloth I wear in my hair.
Birds that kiss my body and devour it like the words of a glutton
With a religious doctrine that he can only sneer at with every step, without caring that his body is starting to rot because of his own words, rotting worms begin to attack his tongue like his sharp words, as if he were the one who truly judges our crown, and will accompany us and our family to hell with his tongue filled with rotting worms
Charley Lenton-Lyons
Hyenas laugh when they are feeling stressed.
Like the time you lay there in the dark pillows soaked with tears for a baby we haven't conceived.
Asking why my pillow was dry.
And all my body could muster in response was a slight chuckle.
Words dissolve in my throat.
The clan's cackle fills it.
Ayushi Kaushik
Yes I am oversized
Sometimes I don't even get clothes of my size,
And It makes me realise
That there will be days,
When I won't be able to rise.
I know not everyone likes me,
But not everyone can write like me.
I am not perfect,
But for me I have respect.
I may not have a proper shape,
But I face reality and will never escape.
I am a woman with dreams,
And the weight of my body can never stop me it seems.
My body can never define me,
Because it is the inner beauty that design me.
Yes I have scars,
But for me they never acted like bars.
Instead they made me realise
That my body has its own charm,
To which no one can harm. I know people will question my marks,
But they will get an answer through my sparks. I am too scared sometimes,
But to overthink silly things,
I don't have enough time.
One day my scars will become my beauty,
Because they never come in between my duty. I may carry them throughout my life,
And I hope to be judged on the basis of my vibe.
Diya Mirza
Endless pain I carry,
Hidden beneath my tired heart,
Yet my eyes speak the sorrow,
A pain that has no scars,
But deeper than a scar itself.
My heart feels empty,
For no reason I can Explain,
Yet no one will notice the
Emptiness hidden within me,
Instead they call me weak.
Maybe I am weak to heal,
But people are weaker still,
Weaker to notice,
Weaker to feel.
Crying every second,
Not Because I feel left out
But because I am tired of pretending I am fine,
When my soul is tired.
You see me smiling,
As if I could rule the world,
Yet my heart aches inside,
Hidden behind my smile,
Like a clown who laughs,
While hiding tears behind his mask,
My smile is my armor,
My hearts painful task.
Even if I ruled the world,
None of it would satisfy my heart,
For it does not crave a crown,
It craves peace,
Even without war.
Suffering from the pain of isolation,
Invisible to the eye,
Yet burning like a fire,
Deep within my soul.
I hold on to things that hurt,
Because letting go feels like being trapped in death,
Through every sleepless night,
Realizing the next day may bring the same breathless ache.
And still, I bear it
Alone, but trapped in dark.
They say we are weak,
But I say people are weak,
To notice one's pain that they suffer alone.
Stop criticizing the weak,
Who carry a world inside,
While smiling outside.
Look closer, Notice the little changes,
The quiet eyes, trembling heart,
For innocent hearts,
Do not ask for much,
Only a little empathy,
Only a little kindness,
And sometimes a single word,
Is enough to save a life.
For even when endless problems arise,
Remember this truth,
Healing is never Alone,
We heal together.
Smriti Shrivastava
Someone skips odd lines
Someone keeps all align
Someone blinks quite a time
While Some counts Just like i rub my hands
Circle Straight and around the borders
With soap foam into them
One two three four
Just once more, i say
Until i get it right
Until i loose my sight
Until it cracks the skin
Until my breath shudders
Though no one often utters
Yet i know they know
They know me as a poor thing
As something they don't know
This tightening of chest
This fluttering Restlessness
We might be human
But not normal
We already have lost the quest
Each one of us has
Something of utmost importance
Than being normal
To stay humane
Though we all were filled
With myriad-bright-possibilities
But why would we ever,
Turn the fate-stone over?
And be productive in any way…
Instead, We stay the regular customers Of psychiatric pharmacies.
Ahmed Shauraf
I always knew of her existence a moth chasing the flame, opening her flesh just to be loved.
The first time I heard of her was through a voice note her best friend sent.
She said she would come for me if I ever made her bestie cry.
Months later, we met again somewhere in the night.
She was chasing flames, as usual.
The pigs surrounded her, their eyes crawling over her body as they drooled.
They questioned why my eyes never seemed to find her body the way theirs did.
I wondered how someone could feel safe among predators.
Perhaps she never knew that someone could be loved for anything other than her body.
Love had always felt like a war and she was the battlefield, left behind with all the scars.
They crushed every moth they found beneath their shoes, clawing at their wings, curling them out.
Maybe then they would never dare to fly again.
As the night settled, we found ourselves on a private rooftop, silently dancing to a song playing from someone's phone.
She shifted constantly from butterfly to moth, from laughter to weeping.
Through the night she kept shrinking, switching trying to find her flame, trying to fly towards it.
Then she cried about her friend. The one who had left first. Why did she leave her?
Her friend had found her own way out, leaving behind all the pain they were supposed to survive together.
And now she carried it too another ghost, another absence, another weight she could barely carry.
Then she cried about her parents, how they abandoned her, how she never understood why.
But even between those breaths, she never mentioned the hands that grabbed her during the night.
How the parents who should have loved her made her afraid of the darkness in her own bed.
Every night, searching for a stranger, another bed, somewhere to rest her head. She told us about graduation.
The song she wanted to dance to. And we listened. We danced.
We stayed with her until the night grew tired.
But somewhere inside us, we knew she had been dealt a cruel hand.
Some wounds had been carved into her long before we arrived.
We could see the carvings in her wings. We tried not to look away.
But what do you do when a moth has spent its whole life mistaking the flame for warmth?
How do you teach it not to fly toward the only light it has ever known?
We wanted to help her. Maybe we did, in all the small ways we knew how.
But some nights love is not enough.
Some people are already so far from the shore that all you can do is stand there, calling their name, while the sea keeps taking them further.
As we departed, perhaps somewhere inside us, we knew that all the nightmares haunting her would eventually find her.
A month later, I heard she had found her flame. It was not sudden.
She spent the night by the beach, and then she chose to end it all.
They buried her in an unmarked grave, as unbothered by her death as they had been by her life.
And I still wonder: Who do I blame for her death? The men who drooled over her?
The ones who carved her wings? The friend who left first, taking herself and leaving behind a grief too heavy to carry? The home that felt like a haunted house? The hands that left their marks on her skin? The teeth that consumed her body?
Or do I blame fate for dealing her such a terrible hand, and then asking her to survive it?
Or do I blame myself? Because we saw her. We knew how much she was hurting.
We knew the nightmares had names. And still, nothing we did could save her.
Maybe the cruelest part was never knowing whether love could have been enough.
Because sometimes you can hold someone for a night, dance beside them on a rooftop, listen to their dreams about graduation and the song they want to dance to and still wake up one morning to find the moth has finally reached the flame.
F Malsawmzuala
Night begins to fall, The hours grow late.
The chirping of crickets, fades slowly into silence.
The night grows deeper,
And the ticking of the clock, grows louder and louder.
Lying in bed, We weave endless daydreams.
Thoughts race wildly.
What can never be real, Is led into a dream world,
And in that dream world, we live.
These things keep me from sleeping
And keep me awake till dawn.
The first sound we hear at first light,
The rooster crows long and loud,
And the morning flower that blooms each morning
Has blossomed once again.
Razan
my memory drifts in like autumn rain
clouded, foggy,
and damp against my skin
edges blur, shapes dissolve
there are no landmarks
no timestamp i can hold up to the light
no proof to anchor in my bones,
that this is what happened, or when
in my head, there’s a voice that says:
it makes sense, this is normal
trauma smudges time
the body keeps minutes the mind drops
“you know enough to know what you know”
and there is another voice:
sharp as frost,
as a verdict upon a gavel’s fall,
demanding evidence of crime
it leans in close and whispers:
what if you made it up?
what if the gaps are as vacuous as you?
what if this ache is only proof that you can’t be true?
so i put myself on trial every night
a witness to my own judgment
i testify, i cross-examine,
i call in witnesses to swear me innocent
their answers calm me for an hour,
maybe two
but, like fog before rain,
certainty dissolves
like muddy footprints; elusive
the tighter i grasp,
the faster they slip
like water through clenched hands
the fear is not of you,
but of me
of being wrong about myself
of waking up one day exposed
what if i made it all up?
i always was an imaginative girl
maybe i mistook pain for fact, uncertainty for sin?
and yet; my body flinches at the thought
my sleep fractures along old fault lines
i carry myself with silent apology
nightmares do not ask my mind for consent
something in me remembers without taking clear shape
i stand at a crossroads:
1) i know enough
2) i know nothing
i hold them both like live wires,
learning slowly that healing does not require a verdict of “not guilty”
i don’t need to prove anything
i don’t need a perfect story
i will not testify against myself every time the fog rolls in
i know enough to know what i know
Arushi Pal
A pair of lovers in the air or whatsoever,
Betrayal and lust Or whatsoever,
Peace or war or whatsoever,
Virtue and sin or whatsoever,
Life or death or whatsoever,
Stealth or welch or whatsoever,
Shattered dreams or whatsoever,
A whisper of hope or whatsoever,
The dance of shadows at dusk or whatsoever,
Truth wrapped in lies or whatsoever,
A slip of time or whatsoever,
A heartbeat of doubt or whatsoever,
The pull of tide or whatsoever,
An echo in silence or whatsoever
PRIANSHU NANDI
All day long, the gust of north has been
Rustling the soaked green
Showering the deciduous fall, I breathe somewhere between sleeves and shawl.
Gone are those days of sweet drizzle
Yet, the sky and earth are inextricable
From dew to snow to nor'wester
The gust takes me along from better to greater.
Fallen leaves often rise
The golden pavements fix my eyes
On the woods—tinge and fade
The clouds depart, drifting the shade.
Is everything apparently weary and white
When draped by the cosy night?
Till the dawn bursts the foliage sprout
Once they were lying dead and fallen out.
Amna Arshad
I learned to smile when storms were near,
To hide the weight behind my eyes; I answered, “I am fine,” with cheer,
While drowning underneath disguise.
They called my silence strength, not pain,
My sleepless nights, a passing phase;
But no one saw the quiet rain
That filled the rooms behind my gaze.
Then someone asked, “What do you need?” Not “Why are you like this?” just “Speak.”
And for the first time, I was freed
From feeling guilty for being weak.
So let us make a world where minds Are heard before they break apart;
Where those who struggle shape the signs,
And healing starts with being heard.
For sometimes change begins this way:
One honest voice, one open door— A person choosing,
“I will stay,” And knowing they are worth much more.
Miqudad Kodiyammel
The dusty certificate of tenth grade, folded and forgotten beneath an old trunk.
In the courtyard, the future lay stretched out against the leg of a chair.
“Got yourself a job yet?” everyone who passed by asked over a glass of tea.
Back then, inside my mother’s womb, I was already a Collector.
Now and then, in the blue light of my mobile, the smell of reels drifted in.
I hugged my pillow, the night turned over, and so did I.
At the village tea shop, everyone who saw me would call out “Still no work?”
And they stamped a name on me.
To ease the burden, I sent two applications, filled form after form, spent money I barely had.
Everyone scattered advice like seeds, looked at my father, looked at my mother, and passed their verdict “This is how they raised him…”
Even relatives joined the court.
As notifications piled up, so did disappointment.
I searched for one small corner of the bed and lay there.
First, I slept. Then I opened my eyes, turned over again.
That night, morning itself went missing.
“Go outside and look around,” Mother called.
“From tomorrow,” I swore. Then I pulled the blanket tighter and went back to sleep.
My moustache grew darker. My face grew dull. The calendar kept turning.
Only my age went off to work.
I walked south. I walked north. The roads ran out.
The job never appeared.
Until, one day, a call finally came.
That day, even the wind I met on the way seemed to ask, “An interview?”
I smiled.
And the whole world heard my Certificate of Contempt.
With my first salary, I bought Mother a saree.
And then those who had served me contempt till yesterday borrowed smiles.
“He’s our boy, after all…” they said, putting an arm around my shoulder.
I alone folded those old names and tucked them away somewhere inside my heart.
And without a word, I walked on.
Liengoane Raliengoane "Dee"
For you are the most constant in my life,
You are the only one that stays against my will,
The only one that chooses me despite my protests,
Why doesn't anyone else choose me the way you do?
I keep wondering if you will ever leave me,
At my happiest you are forever lurking in the shadows,
In my darkest moments you thrive,
You feed off of my silence,
You glow during night time, and make yourself heard,
By burying me in ruminating thoughts and self doubts.
It's clear you have taken over my life again,
I've started biting my nails, though I loathe doing it,
I'm peeling my skin, disgusting as it may be I can't help myself,
Digging through my skin like I'm looking for treasure, if there is well I'm still yet to find it.
The churning in my stomach, making me feel what I can't communicate.
The overthinking, Sweaty palms, Tight chest, Clenched teeth,
Breathing patterns, Blurred visions in public, Dizzy spells and lightheadedness, Weak knees, Panic attacks, Constant tears and heartache,
I can't keep living like this.
How are my longest friend, But my biggest enemy?
I don't wanna be with you, But I can't seem to get rid of you,
I don't even remember how life was like before you,
Before you came into my life,
Before you ruined the best parts of me,
And turned me into a shell of what I used to be,
Taking the best version of me, leaving behind the broken versions you molded me into.
Dear Anxiety, can you just give me a break.
Without breaking me?
Tavinder Kaur New
We all have mental health— anxiety, depression, OCD, struggles, trauma, the wounds we carry silently, all part and parcel of our journey.
So be kind. Because behind that smile, someone could be hurting, quietly struggling to cope.
How often do we hear the platitudes: “It will get better.” “Think positive.” “Be strong.”
And so we try. We keep going. We carry on. But sometimes, pieces of us begin to fade away.
The tears fall. The feelings surface. And beneath the silence lies an inner turmoil that no smile can hide.
We are human, after all.
There is no shame in asking for help. No weakness in saying, “I need support.”
Sometimes we simply need someone to stand beside us, to listen without judgement, to help carry us across a difficult threshold.
The mind can descend into darkness, troubled by thoughts and inner voices, and reaching out does not make us weak.
Just understand. Just listen. Don't judge. Be there.
There is no reason to pretend.
We are not robots, programmed only to repeat tasks.
We have hearts that beat, minds that feel, and souls that can become tired.
Our mental health matters. It must remain at the forefront— not hidden away, not whispered about, not left until crisis comes knocking.
Because cracks can form in what once seemed strong and unbreakable.
And when those cracks spread, everything can become too much— an overflowing of emotions, a sinking beneath the surface.
So speak your truth. Say how you feel. Share the inner self. Release the pain.
You do not have to carry it alone.
Let us choose kindness over judgement, listening over assumptions, understanding over stigma. Because behind every smile there is a story.
And sometimes, all someone needs is for another person to say:
“I see you. I hear you. I'm here.”
Khushi kumari
What if her silence wasn't peace but screams that choked and never ceased?
What if her marks were not her worth just numbers that buried her since birth?
What if the whispers in the hall were daggers that made her feel so small?
What if her smile was just a thread a mask she wore with silent dread?
What if her father's words cut deep "Work harder" while she couldn't sleep?
What if her mother's comparisons stung her love felt like a prize she'd never won?
What if she left without a sound a note, a window, a ghost unbound?
Her mother's plate would stay full and cold, her father's hands too weak to hold.
What if someone asked before she fell?
What if they saved her from this hell?
What if they stayed just held her tight?
She wouldn't have fled into the night.
So ask today. Don't wait too long.
One word can make a heart grow strong.
Before she fade into the night just stay. Just see.
Just hold her tight.
Sathishkumar P
For hearts don’t need answers
“I am fine.”
Three little words I chose to say, while hiding whole storms every day.
A smile on the lips, a war in the chest— I told the world I was doing the best.
“Nothing happened. Nothing went wrong. Nothing to worry about.”
A few soothing words, very easy to speak, yet heavy enough to make even the strongest weak. I laughed with my friends, I played my part, even when silent thunder shook my heart.
I stood amongst the crowd, yet felt alone, carrying burdens I had never shown.
We notice wounds that leave a scar, but miss the ones concealed behind the smiles we wear.
We see the fever, the broken bone — but who sees the pain that’s ne’er shown?
“Be strong.” “You think too much.” “Others have problems as much as you.”
And I nodded, though I couldn't explain the weight within, the pain invisible.
Then one day, someone sat beside me. No advice. No rush….
He simply asked, “Do you want to talk?”
I said, “No.” He stayed as if my silence deserved a company.
And slowly, through the warm air, I found the courage to begin to share.
The words were broken, sentences a few, but for the first time, I let my emotions come through. I learnt that healing doesn't always start with an answer, expect a cure, or a perfect part.
At times it begins, softly and slow, when someone listens and lets you know:
“You don't have to hide. You don't have to pretend. Take your own sweet time. I'm here till the end.” People around us quietly hurt day by day.
The child who stops speaking in the class, the friend whose smile no longer lasts, a father says, “I’m okay,”…. but carry storms through the day. We call them lazy, rude, or weak..!!
We should perhaps pause before we speak. Perhaps we should ask. Perhaps we should stay.
Perhaps we should listen before walking away. Because their stories are not ours to define. Their lives are not numbers on a line.
Their pain is not a lesson for us to explain— they are people, with joy, hope yet pain.
Let us build places where hearts can speak, where asking for help is strength not weak.
Let homes, schools and workplaces become places where saying “I’m struggling” is safe to become.
And when someone finally finds the courage to say, “I’m not okay,” let us not turn their words away.
Let us sit to listen. Let silence have space.
For sometimes a life begins to heal not through a miracle, but something real— but when one human being finally knows:
Their voices matter. Their stories are heard. And someone cares.
Amol Barai
The battles so many, fought in silence,
Where no one hears the sound,
No wounds upon the body,
Yet inner pain is all around.
A smile may hide a thousand tears,
A laugh may hide despair,
And sometimes strongest-looking are breaking unaware.
Some nights, the mind won't let you sleep, with thoughts that never cease;
You close your eyes to find some rest, but cannot find the inner peace.
You fight the fear, you fight the doubt, you fight the words inside,
You tell the world, “I'm doing fine,” while falling deep inside.
There are days when getting out of bed feels harder than it seems,
When yesterday feels far too heavy, and tomorrow's lost in dreams.
You may feel lonely in a crowd, unheard among the noise;
You may forget your own strength while trying to please every voice.
But listen to the heart within— it whispers, “Hold on tight.”
For even after the darkest hour, the sky still welcomes light.
You don't have to win each battle, you don't have to always be strong.
It's okay to pause, to breathe, to cry, when everything feels wrong.
Your scars don't make you broken, your tears don't make you weak;
Sometimes courage is simply having one more day to seek.
So if you're fighting battles that nobody else can see,
Remember—you are more than the pain you carry silently.
And someday, when you look behind, you may finally understand...
The war you thought would break you was teaching you to stand.
You are still here. You are still breathing.
And sometimes, that itself is a victory.
Thushaleny
She brought me into this world
She always gave me everything she had
Countless nights, she went to bed starving
But never once did she let me go without
She showed me how to dream, how to grow,
Her dream was me
She wanted me to success She made me believe I could win
And now I become someone
But her amnesia
Slowly carries her memories away
Sometimes she even forgets me
Though her memory has betrayed her
Whenever I tell her “I won. I became someone”,
Her eyes light up with happiness
Then she forgets. And when I tell her again,
She smiles with the same joy, as if she is hearing it for the very first time.
And once again, she takes me into her warm embrace, the same arms
That once carried me into this world.
Her memory may forget my name,
But her heart never forgets me.
Nurul Syuhada
Death dances around my head as I lay in the darkness of the night the cold hard floor my anchor as my mind sinks deeper in the cold dark sea.
The thoughts run in my head like a train with no brakes moving faster and faster in circles waiting to collide with each other and release the thoughts that were kept so long in my head.
Dark orbs stared the ceiling covered in dust and web abandoned by their makers while my mind had wandered into another realm leaving my body on this stone cold floor.
Death dances around my head, holding its hand out like an invitation but my hands are too heavy, my mind too messy instead
Death sits besides me in the quiet darkness I was in.
Death has seen the days where I fought and lost and more than once had seen the crimson that flowed from my arms, but
Death has seen me where I won and I stood up with pride wiping the tears from my face and continued on this game called Life.
Death is a terrifying thing yet I find comfort in his presence because he does not judge or comments when I lost my fights but stays while giving me comfort in his own way with whispers of nothings in my tornado-induced brain.
Death sat with me like a long lost friend I had missed as I walk though my waves watching my battles and waiting to guide me to a different realm.
Omoregie Lawrence Jr
Or maybe love looks different from above
A father’s hand that lets the fever burn,
So deeper healing waits for its return.
I see the righteous struck by sudden night,
The gentle crushed beneath indifferent might,
While wolves in wool feast freely on the fold,
And heaven’s silence feels unbearably cold.
Why do the good bleed first when tempests rage?
Why does the pure heart carry every cage?
The kind are mocked, betrayed, and left to stand
With open wounds and empty, outstretched hands.
Bad men build empires on broken backs,
Laugh at the lightning, never feel the cracks.
They cheat, they steal, they trample without fear
And still the sun rises bright upon their year.
I worked the soil with honest calloused hands,
Rose before dawn, obeyed the ancient plans.
Poured sweat like rain, gave every honest breath,
Yet harvest came as dust, as loss, as death.
Another barely lifts a finger’s weight,
Chases the wind, arrives at fortune’s gate.
He dances where I crawled, he reaps where I bled
Success crowns the lazy, crowns the misled.
Is this the world You crafted, Lord of all?
A tilted stage where merit takes the fall?
Where virtue walks in rags and vice in gold,
And prayers dissolve like ashes, pale and cold?
Perhaps Your love is not the shield I craved,
But fire that refines what can be saved.
Perhaps the pain is classroom, not cruel spite
A forge that tempers souls for endless light.
Yet still I wonder in the midnight hour,
When good men break and evil ones devour,
When effort dies and shortcuts wear the crown
Maybe God doesn’t love me…
Or maybe love wears thorns instead of down.
Maybe the test is trusting when it hurts,
Believing sunrise follows darkest dirt.
I’ll keep these questions burning in my chest,
And walk the road with faith—or what is left.
For if You love me, let the answer come
Not in soft ease, but in the strength to overcome.
Aishath Khumaisaa
Lost footage
Staring through a tv
Watching 24/7
Resting hands unable to move
Frozen like icicles cold to the touch
Wish i can show how my mind works
Sadly it feels like im trapped and stuck
Writing feels like a chore
Everything feels like a chore
Everyone else walks by
While im still waiting for an opportunity to move
Unable to move i see the light
Yet i cant reach it cox im fixated only to survive
The voices are my closest
Im staring through the tv
Except im the star of the show
Everyone else just sees my body
Surrounded by faces i cant even draw
Yet im told im talented just by a line
I wish i could scream my feelings
I wish i can push away these voices
But they held on for dear life
Like im bound with no choices
What is real what is not i cant say
I just want to do whatever it takes to get rid of them all
The more i stare the more disoriented i get
But im unable to say as im sat
These voices getting louder
The static on this tv
Until i take one final leap of faith
At last i am free…
Finally i am safe
But im not me I see myself my body
Just this time not through the tv screen
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