Quiet Worth
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.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
