In the gallery of the soul, hung with care, Is a tapestry woven, threadbare yet rare. Each strand, a story, a memory, a theme, Together they craft the fabric of self-esteem.

Some threads are golden, shining and bright, Moments of triumph, pure delight. Others are tarnished, frayed by time, Echoes of challenges, mountains yet to climb.

The world outside, with its cacophonous din, Often dictates where one's worth should begin. Yet, true value isn't in reflections seen, But in the quiet whispers of what's been.

For every tear, every stumble, every fall, Adds depth to the story, gives meaning to all. Self-worth isn't just in victories won, But in battles fought, in journeys begun.

In the heart's silent chambers, let this resound, Your worth isn't lost, it's waiting to be found. Not in others' words, not in shadows cast, But in the love for oneself, vast and vast.

So, when doubt creeps in, darkening the day, Remember the tapestry, in its unique display. For self-esteem, like art, is ever-evolving, A testament to life's constant revolving.