Worth

What is it worth now?

Tell me—

how much peace is left for me?

Can you measure it?

In hours?

In days or weeks?

Maybe months —

but even that feels generous.

And what does it buy me?

A handful of quiet mornings,

a few untroubled thoughts.

How do you weigh that

against years?

Years of this—

this slow, spreading misery.

A life that feels less like freedom and more like a sentence.

And I can’t help but think—

what kind of life bargains

years of suffering

for fragments of relief?

Because even years of peace

wouldn’t tip the scale.

Not enough to justify

carrying this.

Not enough to make it worthwhile.