I am worth the words I say, these phrases and rhymes I place on the page.
It seems like forever, an age and a day, before it was something I ever thought to say, or think.
It feels like at some point I decided to blink, and my worth was gone, lost to time, never to replaced, never again for me to find.
I’m tired of this though, this empty unfeeling, this apathy and despair, the only thing I really feel is the self hatred, it being all that is truly there.
I’m done though, it is time to cleanse the wound, to clean the gash and make myself anew, or at least as close as it gets. Scarred and scared but standing again.
I will find my worth, I’ll put in these words, I’m worth that much at least, if not a good bit more.
I am done sitting still, in that darkness of misery that from my wounded self does spill.
I am cleansing the wound, purified with fire, the glory of self worth to clean away my doubt, my self directed ire.
I claim my shadows, my darkness and misdeeds, performed in thought for none to see, not a one was harmed, yet it certainly scarred me. Afraid of my muse I ran from her in hate, hate of me for the stories inside my head, afraid of the words that felt worthless on the page, scrawled in blood that only I could see.
I own myself and who I am, my thoughts are mine, but they are not my actions, they are not my deeds, for all that I put some on paper for all to see.
So I cleanse myself and make myself anew, no shame, no regrets, I am myself, and that is who I must be. To clean the scars of the infection, to clear the pus from seeping wound, I will lance it with these words that I now know to be true.
I am worth the words on this page, the thoughts and dreams, and all my fears and misery. I am worth that and more, I have to be, it must be true. For it to otherwise, well, it is not something I can condone or even think to do.
So I am worth this much at least, if not much more in the end, and I will prove to me at least, my worth found in the words I write for me to see, for me to say aloud and hear and in turn believe.
I am worth it all, my life, my pain, my hopes and misery.
That is the only real choice, the only true option that is not poisoned with doubt and misdeeds.
The only option I can feel proud enough to put in words and find the worth there, on the page that I did scribble and shout out as truth inside my mind.
The only option I can put to pen and paper, and release to the winds, release to the world.
The only action I can feel proud of for all the see.
This is me, this is myself, finding worth in words I write for all to see.
And for me to believe.