Quietly Dying!

A poem on the weight of slow deaths-

The very day when I tried dying,

As if it were a mere hobby of mine,

That very day when existing felt like sin,

A wound carved deep beneath my skin.

My hands, as empty as my heart,

Devoid of destiny lines or veins,

No blood to hold my life in rein,

Just silence in every rhythm of my brain.

My soul stood still in compliance,

Whispering, what’s left to survive?

As the last ounce of breath I cast

Slipped from the edge of staying alive.

I felt myself slipping into a blackhole

A space where time doesn’t mend,

Where even light gives up halfway,

And shadows learn how to pretend.

I tried to rise, but void held me tight,

Even gravity against my fight.

And I wondered if simply breathing

Can even be called living or a life.

For I was exhausted of existing,

Tired of waking, tired of trying,

Tired of smiling with lips that trembled,

Tired of living while quietly dying.

And as the darkness engulfed me somehow

Cold tears ran, drowing me down,

I questioned if the world would notice

The silence that I might leave behind.

~Sambodhita Jena .