There is a whisper,
a voice so soft
that it goes unheard
amongst the bustling people.

There is a voice,
if you focus you will hear.
For it dances to different rhythm
and moves differently than other tongues.

It is a voice,
that speaks to you.
Whispers to you all day long
indicating what's good
and what's not.
It knows,
when no one else knows
what's right for you.

So learn its height,
learn its breadth,
learn its origin
learn its trail
and its ends
because it's all for you
to test.

You have a voice,
that is powerful.
for it can spew hate
or spread love.
It can tell the truth to save
or lie to manipulate.
It can heal,
It can ****.
It can bring comfort,
and it can bring pain.

Your voice has potential
that can strive for something greater.
It can suppress segregation,
arise integration.

So choose wisely,
with how you tone it.
Amplify it,
express it,
for you can make a difference,
a better difference.

Mental illness is rising
psychologists's career are booming,
social media is redefining
making it a beautiful suffering.

Sadness has become boring,
misery has become enchanting.
Scars have become beauty,
grief has become engaging
and depression has become alluring.

Emotions have become art,
heartbreak has become a heart wrenching song.
pain has become poetry
and mental illness has become
edgy-tending label.

When did they start to disguise agony
behind such beauty?

Once she chased happiness
and now she chases broken pieces.
She fell in love with pain,
it drove her insane.
For who would want to hurt themselves?

Who would choose to
love to be heartbroken,
run back to the ones who would hurt,
reminisces painful memories to be hurt,
indulge in negativity, to drown in its depths
be comforted by demons than people.

But no one saw,
for there were no scars,
for it was mental self harm.

Pain it craved,
fear, rejection and sadness it ate.

She cried, because it was self harm
she screamed, and shouted
asking herself did she not love herself
to be hurt by her own self?

Writers,
poets,
artists,
songwriters
bleed pain into art.

But don'y you understand
pain is not art.
They embellish pain,
to cement the heartache.
They craft darkness
hoping to enlighten.

But in the end,
agony is agony,
no matter how you express,
how you make it bleed.

Emotions from words,
on tear stained pages
captivate readers
making them believe there
is solace in darkness
and leave them forlorn to be adorned.

But their intention was not to
glamorize plan but rather to let it be
their outlet of expression,
therapy and to create.

In the end there is no substitute,
agony is agony,
grief is grief,
illness is illness
and that what it will be.

Ideas,
thoughts,
flood to and fro in my mind,
but none pour
out of my pen.
For these words are stuck,
stumbling,
rushing,
flying,
around in my head.

Mind block feels like a curse,
for it is an empty purse of ideas.
Because as an artist,
you are broke.