Glory of Words

I wonder at the way I have a difficult time embracing the word, "Writer" when it comes to myself. How my inner critic bristles and mutters invalidating comments. How I feel the need to avoid this label, feel unworthy of it.

Like the uncertainty, downright dread of singing in front of people, I wonder if there is something underlying feeling like I don't deserve to call myself a writer. All the times I was told I was too talkative, too inquisitive, too argumentative (a prelude to my spending days at a time in my room, grounded)...

Anyway, in trying to keep up with the Sangha poetry challenge, which I've now missed a couple of days of, I came up with a poem tonight inspired by thinking about this.

Glory of Words

Just some words,
Any words, really,
Would do now.

As I child I was
Told I used too
Many words, but
Impossible to explain
Without opening
My mouth to
Share that my
Head felt full
To bursting
With the glory of
Words, of knowledge
Available, open to
Me in the long
Library stacks.

I find less words
Now, although the
Silence feels familiar.