Is It, Really?

 

Is It, Really?

They say, “You’re bound for hell 

if you end your own life,”

as if salvation was written in black and white.

But tell me

is it, really?

When everything feels unbearably heavy 

that despair drips into every thought

like rain that never stops,

is it still that simple?

When the mind is so clouded 

with consuming self-doubt 

and suffocating sadness 

that judgment is shattered beyond reason

is it, really?

For how can one call it choice

when the soul is no longer free,

when death is not desired,

but mistaken for release?

Would you not see 

that the heart is suffocating, not rebelling?

That the pain is not defiant, but pleading 

for a quiet cry for rest 

that the world could not give?

So I ask again,

is it truly a sin

to believe that peace may be easier felt in death

than it ever was in life?