You Don’t Know What I’ve Survived

You see the scars. You don’t see the grave.

You talk like pain’s a passing storm, Like fire don’t change a man’s form. Like I just woke up hard one day — Like I ain’t paid for every mistake.

You see a shadow, call it pride, Call it ego I can’t hide. But pride don’t grow in open fields — It grows where something breaks and heals.

You think you know What shaped this frame.

You don’t.

You don’t know what I’ve survived, What I buried just to stay alive. You don’t know the nights I stood Where weak men wished they could.

You don’t know the heat I faced, The hell I walked, the fear I chased. You see the man — But not the fight.

You don’t know what built this spine.

I’ve dug my own grave twice before, Felt that cold beneath the floor. Heard my name called from below — And still said no.

You call it cold the way I stand, Like I don’t feel, like I don’t bend. But men like me don’t harden fast — We harden last.

You think I’m stone. I’m just steel.

You don’t know what I’ve survived, How many pieces didn’t die. You don’t know the kind of flame That leaves a man but kills his shame.

You see the calm — You miss the storm. You see the silence — You miss the war.

You don’t know what made this man.

I don’t need you to understand. I don’t need applause. I just need you to step careful When you speak my flaws.

You don’t know what I’ve survived, What I walked through and came back alive. You don’t know the cost I paid — Or the monster that I never made.

You see the scar — You guess the pain. You see the fire — You miss the rain.

You don’t know what I’ve survived.

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