"They say the brave die once, the cowards a thousand times "
yet I’ve fallen, crawled, and risen,
only to die in the silence between the battles.
So tell me—when the wounds go unseen,
does that make me brave, or a coward?
I loved an emptiness, knowing it would never love me back,
then died when even the hollow turned away.
I fought for a dream that crushed me in its ruin,
stood firm as the storm, only to drown
when the ones I shielded became the wind and rain.
I have died in ways no one counts—
not once, not a thousand, but somewhere in between.
So answer me this:
If courage is measured in scars no one sees,
"am I brave, or just a fool who didn’t know when to stop?"