Mental Health Who Cares?

Mental Health Who Cares?

They call it progress,

but I see the same silhouettes

waiting in quiet rooms,

pale walls echoing questions

that never come with answers.

A hand outstretched —

not for comfort, but paperwork,

cold as the click of a keyboard

as someone types your name

like a problem to be filed,

not a soul to be saved.

And we are still

crying into pillows at 3 a.m.,

not for attention —

but because the weight

doesn’t clock out,

and the dawn feels

like a broken promise.

Why is the hardest battle

still convincing someone

you’re drowning

when the water’s invisible?

2025,

and they build faster phones,

smarter cars,

but silence the hearts

screaming for help.

Is this the future?

Or just a shinier version

of the same old darkness?

Mental health is not a whisper

to be brushed beneath the surface —

it is a storm, a struggle,

a silent war waged within.

We cannot call it progress

if hearts remain unheard,

and the mind is still a maze

where too many wander alone.