Self-Worth- Mythic
My Self-worth is not defined
By my monotony
Nor by the bright elation that
Rises in me.
My emotions shift like
Passing Storms-
But my worth is older than
Weather.
My Self-worth is not defined
By anyone's opinions.
People speak from their own
Shadows,
Their own fractured mirrors
None of them rewrite me.
My Self-worth is not bent by
Perception,
Nor altered by misunderstanding.
It stands like an ancient pillar,
Carved from memory.
My Self-worth is mine-
Innate, steady,
Unshaken by Darkness or
Light.
My Self-worth remains.
They circled my desk
I drew flowers on my page
The bell rang; I stayed
All these little flaws
That you see in my design,
Can you get rid of them
If they’re so easy to find?
I’m not perfect, but I’m horribly designed.
All these imperfections built within me
Only keep holding me back from
Being the best person that I can be.
I wonder if I can give you the keys
To control my thoughts and actions,
Create the perfect me that can please.
Maybe there’s some worth in that.
Reality keeps slipping through my fingers.
I can no longer see what matters to me.
It might be best for someone else to take over.
I’ve done nothing meaningful with these hands of mine.
The darkness where I can fade into calls me.
I could take one more step and be gone.
I don’t have to worry about how I was designed,
Because all the imperfections will disappear.
Lock me behind bars,
Hide my eyes under the cloudy sky.
Sweet to burn my heart,
Kiss my nape and burn my soul.
Lovely crime, to love a boy.
He despises the fate I write,
The will I wish to sign.
O dear Lord, I beg as I close the closet,
How gay, and never overjoyed,
Over loving a man who hates my wine.
I plead to close the gates of my closet,
So, I never let him out of my mind.
Diamonds locked inside the safe.
The New Favorite
She looks great in my clothes, atleast that's what everybody says,
Like I wasn't the reason they noticed them in the first place.
She laughs with all my friends like she's always belonged,
I hate that she fits in so fast where it took me so long.
She wears my sweater like she's discovered something rare,
And I spend the whole night pretending I don't care.
She says the same things I used to and somehow they sound brand new,
But maybe everything hits different when it's not coming from you.
And I hate the girl I become whenever she walks in,
Like confidence is something only one of us can win.
And maybe that's the difference that took me years to learn,
She's wearing what I wore, but she can't be the person that i am.
I've spent so long worrying that she's going to take everything from me, that I forgot the one thing she can never have: the person I became because of it.
I saw your story today,
again, and again.
Waiting for the moon to come out
from behind the dark clouds,
I could see the brightness behind it.
It's so bright.
I knew, it's the moon
I knew, it's you.
The dark clouds know; they only make it beautiful
and the moon smiles and shy away behind them.
Struggles to conceal the brightness within
What if the world couldn't look away?
Yes, the world couldn't look away.
Once they saw the moon so bright, beautiful, breathtaking.
The moon smiles and hugs the dark clouds.
Because they only make it beautiful
And so are you!
Words, they say, are a powerful tool
To share thoughts and express emotions.
Instances, there are, when they are less potent,
In moments spent in meaningful silence.
When understanding life is taking a toll,
Direly confusing and overwhelming,
A minute of solitude will calm the soul,
And escape the noise, often troubling.
When tempers soar, anger flares,
When utterances cut deep within,
Trading no speeches, nor even a stare;
Is a fire doused by water, resembling.
When an idea shared is taken for granted,
Like a wind passing, no bearing, no weight,
Wisdom dictates that dignity be protected;
To keep mum is a clever sleight.
When the soul seems to go astray
And wanders an unfamiliar path,
A quietude may help find the way,
And heal all personal scathe.
It hurts—
because you believed the lie.
It feels unreal—
because truth feels heavy.
In a world full of flaws...
why chase perfection?
You—
were never meant to be perfect,
only real.
And that alone—
makes you enough.
The Chosen
People say not being the chosen one is the worst.
But what if it isn’t?
What if you’re chosen—
but for all the wrong reasons?
Yes, I was chosen,
just to be a measuring tool—
something to compare,
against unfinished things,
just to feel better about yourself.
Like a trophy,
kept in plain sight,
on a neatly managed shelf.
Only ever looked at
from a distance—
always just a glance,
never long enough to notice.
Perhaps if they had,
they would have seen the rust.
Yes, I was chosen—
as the permanent wrong choice,
the one that reminds you
of what you could have had.
Like a roll of dice—
“if only I had thrown it differently,
if only I got another number…”
If only.
I was always the what if.
I was chosen—
but only to blame,
like how you blame the corner
when you stub your toe.
Never atleast a deserving blame.
There’s a difference
between being chosen
and being wanted.
What’s the point of being chosen
if all you hear
is the echo
of the one who wasn’t?
Who is truly chosen?
And how do you even define it?
What’s the point of being chosen
if wanting never follows?
Scared, Yet Unbroken
Scared I'll be the burden that they name,
Scared my laugh will call them to complain;
Scared they'll put my heart aside as blame,
Label me "unwanted" in their frame.
Scared my life will slip to average size,
Scared to dim beneath another's eyes;
Scared to marry only to economize,
Scared my worth will fold into disguise.
Scared to mother in a life of small designs,
Scared our days will tally like thin lines;
Scared the future's gate with quiet signs
Will close on dreams and file them under "fine."
But listen, fear is not my final song,
I am more fierce than what they think is wrong;
I will shape my name, I will stand my strong,
I will claim a place where I belong.
Not just a woman boxed to fit their plan
not merely measured by a nameless man;
I am a storm and I am also land:
owned by no one, steady where I stand.
So keep your judgments I will keep my flame;
turn your "burden" shouting into my name.
I will not vanish; I will not be tame
I will live loud, exact, and boldly claim.
Are you proud of me?
Should I try a bit harder?
When will I please you?
Another minute passes
Another one is gone
The sun has fully faded
Safe to hide until dawn
An observer of this mess
A passenger on this ride
Backed into the corner
While golden children thrive
When uncertainty invades
Stomach fills with dread
Make amends with myself
Before heartbreak comes again
Self-worth is a fragile egg
As is heart, soul, and mind
Hanging on by a thread
Just trying to stay alive
I am not responsible
for the ache that blooms in others
when I place my name
above their expectations.
I have spent lifetimes
softening my voice,
shrinking my needs,
turning myself into a bridge
everyone could cross
while I remained unseen.
No more.
I refuse to apologize
for setting boundaries
where I once offered blood.
I refuse to carry guilt
that was never mine to hold.
My choosing myself
is not cruelty—
it is survival.
It is the long-delayed breath
of a woman who learned
that love without self-respect
is only a slow disappearance.
If my growth unsettles you,
let it.
If my no feels heavy,
place it down—
it was never meant to live in my hands.
I am allowed
to protect my peace,
to bloom without permission,
to walk away from rooms
where my silence was preferred
over my truth.
I choose myself
not to wound the world,
but to finally heal
the woman I abandoned
for far too long.
And that—
that is not selfishness.
That is coming home.
Just because you don’t see beauty
in the softness of my body
doesn’t mean beauty isn’t here.
Just because your eyes stop
at my size,
doesn’t mean another man’s won’t keep going
won’t see me,
all of me,
and call it breathtaking.
I could be the kind of attractive
that makes someone grateful,
the kind of woman
someone looks at and thinks,
how did I get so lucky?
And if you think intimacy
is limited to one version of desire,
one narrow idea
of what it’s supposed to look like…
then maybe you’ve never met someone
willing to explore,
to learn,
to love creatively.
Someone who doesn’t treat my body
like an obstacle,
but like a place
to worship.
Someone who finds ways
to be close,
to be tender,
to be hungry for me
without needing me to shrink.
Because the truth is
your inability to want me
is not proof that I am unwanted.
It’s only proof
that you were never the one
meant to hold me.
Dear Poetry,
What would I do without you?
You have been my avenue of self-expression,
My platform to release confessions,
And an outlet to aid me in my own emotional healing.
How can I ever repay you
For the countless times you have saved me,
The creative writer you have made me,
And the ways in which you have given me hope
When I felt my world crumbling down around me?
It is in this art form that I claim my purpose,
The reason I can bring my words to the surface,
That enables me to push past the pain with a pin—
My deepest thoughts within,
Impatiently waiting to be placed on paper.
Dear Poetry,
You are my voice when I can’t speak,
My strength whenever I am weak,
And my courage that allows me to be just who I am, despite what others may think of me
I am now and forever grateful for letting go—
Letting go of what no longer serves me: a state of mind once deemed unworthy, now discarded, where value of self has taken its place.
And though at times, thoughts of doubt still echoes in my mind, like the footsteps in an empty hallway, it is with this pin, that I have learned how to quiet the negative thoughts within
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