There is only one me

Amid a countless number of voids

If I develop

a sense of value

amid these giant gaping holes

I would feel like a million

My worth is a dime

Picayune sense of security

My heart is a fraction of itself

I need to run far beyond this point

to come close to feeling like a million

It would be a miracle

to feel that wholeness

Because amid the heartache

admitting to voids

I can’t run any further

But maybe I’ve run far enough

to expand my reach toward a million

Perhaps amid my

shaky perception

of time

within this wormhole

I am worth a million

But is that it?

Is your worth

derived from seeing a trail of

your own emptiness

in the distance?

-Jacob R. Moses