Proof of a Quiet Death

Inside,

we died a long time ago.

Not the kind of death

that stops the pulse —

but the kind that silences light.

We learned to walk,

to speak when spoken to,

to smile at the appropriate moments.

We mastered the performance

of being alive.

But something within us

went still.

Dreams stopped knocking.

Hope packed quietly and left.

Even pain grew tired of shouting.

And now,

O death —

why do you delay?

Come if you must.

Not because we crave the end,

but because people demand proof.

They look at our breathing

and call it life.

They see our presence

and assume existence.

They do not understand

that a person can continue

long after their spirit has withdrawn.

Inside,

we have already buried

the brightest parts of ourselves.

What remains

is movement without meaning,

sound without echo,

a body carrying

an unfinished goodbye.

The poem expresses emotional numbness — a state where survival continues but vitality fades. The deeper lesson is not about physical death; it is about invisible suffering. Many people endure internal collapse while appearing functional. The truth is that mental and emotional exhaustion often go unseen.
The real call is not for death —
it is for recognition, understanding, and compassion.
Sometimes what we need is not an ending,
but someone who believes our silence without demanding evidence.