11pm, the world stood still,
Taking a break from life’s loud thrill.
Reflecting on the days gone by,
Pondering why the spirit’s run dry.

"What is this weight, this endless drain,
Tugging hard on heart and brain?"

Seeking answers, searching deep,
Tracing the month where shadows creep.
And there it stands, the final word
A truth, though harsh, silently heard:

Undervalued.

Ideas rise, yet fade away,
Unless they match what others say.
The silent truth, a bitter note:
Your voice? It doesn’t float.

But let it be, and heed the call:
"Doesn’t matter much at all."

Ideas fall on ears of stone,
So keep them close, keep them your own.
For in the quiet, power’s found,
When silence is your battleground.