By Palak Kukreja
What once was play now feels like a cell
A life admired, but not lived well.
Behind the gold and worldly gain
Lies a soul grown tired, worn down by strain.
No iron bars, no chains in sight,
Just practised charm and borrowed light.
The mask performs, the crowd is thrilled,
Yet something deeper stays unfilled.
The brilliance shines, the beauty glows,
But silence aches beneath the shows.
Each hour is packed to dull the sting
A ritual race for everything.
We’re taught to shine, to chase, to be,
But no one warns us what we don’t see:
The laughter lost, the freedom priced,
In roles not chosen, but sacrificed.
Overachieving, overplayed,
While truth and tenderness fade.
They call it drive, they name it pride,
But often, emptiness hides inside.
Titles worn like second skin,
Tight enough to hold pain in.
Voices loud, yet hearts unheard
Truth silenced by a polished word.
It’s more than burnout, more than stress
It’s soul erosion in success.
Eyes still bright but edged with tears,
Striving loud, but drowning fears.
Masters of pace, experts in doing,
But strangers to their own undoing.
True strength belongs to those who see
The self that longs to just be free.
To name the shadow, claim the cost,
And find the pieces that were lost.
When roles dissolve and echoes stay,
The soul remains—it knows the way.
No need to wait for the world’s acclaim
The soul sets sail without a name.
When titles fade and lights grow dim,
The self can rise from deep within.
The inbox clears, the noise declines,
And silence speaks in truer lines.
Let not the end bring fear or shame
But welcome home the one you became.
The key was yours; it always was,
Just buried deep beneath applause.
The breath returns, the ground is near—
Freedom begins when masks disappear.
When masks disappear.