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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I don’t always know what I’m worth in this world. Some days I feel like a loose page torn from a book no one remembers reading, a man walking home in the dark wondering if any of it mattered. But then I think of the poems — the ones I wrote on tired nights, the ones I nearly deleted, the ones I posted anyway because something in me whispered someone might need this. And they did. A stranger in Leeds who said my words kept him company on a night he didn’t trust himself. A woman in Manchester who said she read my words to her brother in hospital because they sounded like hope. A lad in Wakefield who told me he didn’t feel alone for the first time in months because a poem of mine said the thing he couldn’t say out loud. I didn’t fix their lives. I didn’t save anyone. But I made a few people breathe easier, feel seen, feel less like they were breaking in a world that doesn’t slow down for anyone’s pain. And maybe that’s the quiet truth I keep forgetting: worth isn’t measured in noise, or numbers, or the size of the room that claps for you. It’s measured in the small, unremarkable moments where someone’s world is a fraction lighter because you existed. So no — I don’t know how much value I have in the grand, cosmic sense. But I know this: a handful of people are happier, steadier, more alive because of something I wrote, something I said, something I was brave enough to share. And if that’s all I ever give, then I’m already richer than I ever thought I could be.
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