People like pretty stories,
but they fear messy minds.
They hush cracked voices,
yet still cheer for the ones who survived.

They want your pain—
but make it poetic.
They want your scars—
but make them aesthetic.

They pressure you,
until the thoughts aren’t about hurting yourself...
but hurting them.
And suddenly, you're the villain
for finally snapping
after years of being bent.

Let’s just smile—
because that’s what society wants.
They don’t want truth,
just a well-rehearsed front.

Pretend.
Pretend like we’re okay.
Even when we're falling apart in silent decay.

One tiny wrong impression—
and they’ll label you “unstable.”
One moment of emotion—
and you're off the table.

I’m screaming.
Not out loud—
but inside my brain,
where the echoes ache
and the silence stains.

GOD, HELP!
THIS ISNT THE LIFE I DREAM.
I vowed, I praised, I gave everything it seemed.
Sacrificed pieces of me
just to get a piece of peace.

But why must I suffer
just to earn salvation?
Why must I break
just to feel whole?

I scream
till my voice can’t even hum a rhyme.
I scream and scream and scream—
and still, it’s never time.

Help, God.
I’m just a human.
Not a warrior.
Not a prophet.
Just someone still asking…

for a direction.
A reason.
A light.
Anything…
to feel like
life.