"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?"