What it feels to a suicidal?
I always had this sense of pity for those thinking of ending their lives,
Those unemployed, struggling youths & those who left this world before their wives.
I always thought it is an act of bravery to hold those blades and knives.
Their hands, once strong, now tremble with fear,
As they grasp the blade, or the pills draw near,
Did they needed someone to hear?
Their hearts, once full of hope, now heavy with pain,
Their minds, a maze of darkness, with no escape to gain.
Those bruises and words may had left a deep strain,
I always wondered what makes someone thinks to hang them?
When they knew the world would condemn,
Still how one could even think of ending such a valuable gem?
Who expects their life to be shamble?
Okay, life is bitter to handle,
But what's the respect of a frame and a lit candle?
Why sleep forever with those pills?
Those to jump from heights and hills,
Just to free themselves of loans and bills?
Why blades on wrists?
When everyone's life is containing some mist,
Why not faiths and sacred thread on wrists?
Why they want themselves to be dead?
Pain? "It's all in the head"
Why to feel sorrow for what someone had said?
When you can die happily at an old age on your deathbed.
- Agastya Bahuguna
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