The Question

Violence isn’t the answer — it’s the question we wish we never had to face.

This is the cost you pay when silence breaks.

Not glory. Not honor. Just the weight that stays.

What’s the cost, when the silence screams loud?

When the fight leaves a shadow that darkens the crowd?

It’s not in the victory. Not in the cost’s gain.

It’s the weight on your soul — the permanent stain.

No glory in sight, just a cold it’s brought.

That’s the price you sold for a violent cost.

Not being interested in violence — that ain’t weakness, it’s wisdom.

Means you know the price, and the scars that run beneath them.

People glorify the fight, but they don’t feel the weight —

They see the flash, the noise… never the silence it creates.

I’ve walked the line where peace and pain collide.

Sometimes the fist’s the language when no words survive.

Violence takes more than it ever gives back —

It steals from your soul, leaves you under attack.

I’ve held that weight… and I still feel the loss.

That’s why peace is a fight, and mercy’s the cost.

I light a prayer, but it flickers and fades —

’Cause some things you do… they don’t ever get saved.

Faces blur, but the pain stays sharp — etched in my mind,

Carrying memories that don’t bend or unwind.

No glory here. Just a quiet, endless fight,

Haunted by shadows that come with the night.

I learned strength isn’t loud — it’s the will to stand,

Even when the cost burns deep in your hand.

What’s the cost, when the silence screams loud?

When the fight leaves a shadow that darkens the crowd?

It’s not in the victory. Not in the cost’s gain.

It’s the weight on your soul — the permanent stain.

No glory in sight, just a cold it’s brought.

That’s the price you sold for a violent cost.

The weight of the past is a chain you can’t break.

Each choice like a debt that you’re forced to repay.

It’s not in the headlines. Not in the cheers.

Just whispered regrets and invisible tears.

The cost isn’t counted in dollars or fame —

It’s in broken hearts and the loss without name.

I carry the silence. It’s louder than guns.

The battle goes on long after the fights are done.

The streets don’t forget, and neither do I.

Each scar’s a memory that time can’t deny.

I’m not proud of the nights when I had to fight.

But I’m wiser now — knowing wrong from right.

Violence took much, but it taught me this truth:

The hardest wars are the ones caught inside you.

And peace is a prize that we all must pay cost —

Because violence leaves a price far too lost.

What’s the cost, when the silence screams loud?

When the fight leaves a shadow that darkens the crowd?

It’s not in the victory. Not in the cost’s gain.

It’s the weight on your soul — the permanent stain.

No glory in sight, just a cold it’s brought.

That’s the price you sold for a violent cost.

The toughest wars don’t clash with steel or bone —

They’re the silent battles you fight when you feel alone.

We all have our demons, deep and unbound…

The quiet wars inside when no peace is found.

The nightmares don’t march — they creep in slow,

Replayin’ every moment you don’t let anger go.

It’s not just bruises — it’s the trust you break,

The way a soul fractures every time you take.

You lose your sleep. Your voice. Your name.

And no one sees it — but you’re never the same.

They don’t tell you rage has a back-end toll —

That it eats through your conscience and taxes your soul.

My hand once trembled, heavy… confined from weight —

Not from fear, but from the silence when my mind betrays.

So I keep a calmer hand and pray for peace…

’Cause I know what it costs just to make it cease.

Violence don’t end when the wounds run dry —

Defiance won’t mend when storms have passed.

The cost doesn’t end when the fight is done.

It lives in the quiet — the war never gone.

So carry your peace like a fragile flame…

Because violence leaves more than just pain.