There’s no reward for getting dressed,
No glory in a half-felt "yes."
No medals shine for brushing teeth
When shadows writhe beneath your grief.

No spotlight waits when you appear,
Just empty rooms and stale fear.
You fake a laugh, you nod, you eat
You fight a war beneath your seat.

The world keeps turning, blind and loud,
While you stay silent in the crowd.
No one claps for hearts on fire
That choose to breathe and not expire.

Some days your spine is made of thread,
Some nights you sleep beside the dread.
But still—you rise, however slow,
With nothing left but still you go.

You’ve learned the art of standing still,
Of smiling through a shattered will.
Not out of hope, not out of peace
But something deeper: no release.

You’re not a poem, not a spark,
You’re a body moving through the dark.
And even when the lights are gone,
Your trembling step still carries on.

So here's to you—the quiet kind,
The ones the world leaves far behind.
You won't be statues, saints, or songs
But god, you're brave for holding on.