They told me once—

“Your misery is joy in drag,

You wear it like a badge of rank.”

And though it scorched, I kept the flame—

A truth too sharp for comfort’s flank.

Now sadness sells like viral clips,

With hashtags cloaked in grief and gloom.

Real pain gets drowned in shallow pits

Where echoes scream in echo’s room.

Excuses draped in diagnosis,

A shelter built on shifting blame.

“I harm because I hurt,” they say—

But hurt does not excuse the flame.

True illness hides, not flaunts, its face,

And doesn’t crave applause or stage.

It fights in silence, out of place—

Not celebrated. Not the rage.

So here’s my cry, my fierce dissent:

Don’t crown what’s counterfeit with grace.

Let consequence and care align—

Hold truth and healing in their place.

We honor pain by treating it,

Not propping up a mask for likes.

Depression isn’t fashion’s fit—

It’s war. And it deserves real fights.