On The Importance Of Words

I don't know how to go about writing poetry.
Or even if I want to,
or if I should.
Or if my words mean anything after all.
What is the point
of something like poetry?
What good are a few words,
against the world?
Maybe someone will see,
maybe someone will notice.
But chances are,
my words will float away
like birds or dust
or ashes in the wind.
Only temporary,
fleeting,
never to be seen again.
A voice I thought might stand a chance,
lost among all the other voices,
all the other words
which are louder,
stronger.
And so maybe I should keep them close,
my words, which grope along
in the dark,
trying to make something out of nothing
trying to make sense of the world.
Maybe I should hold them tight,
aginst my heart,
guard them,
not let anybody see
how they fumble along,
how unsure they are of themselves.

And yet,
what good would that do for the world,
and for me, 
if I continue to hide away in the dark.
How did silence ever help anyone?

What is the point of a story,
if it goes untold?