Too Wide, Too Wonderful

The Writer’s Blood in my fountain pen
makes me question my worthiness.
But when have I ever believed I was worthy?

After all, I grew up in a world of words
descended from the litigious Latin language,
which allows no dissent from the sentence given in the good book.

So I wear a blue sweatshirt to and from the gym,
with a single word emblazoned upon my chest, telling
anyone who cares to notice that I am a WRITER.

Shouldn’t that be enough? After all, labels stick.
We invest our faith in and wear them proudly.
Why would anyone doubt their veracity—least of all, I?

Then again, I’ve not been at home in this matter-of-fact world.
I guess, therefore, I’ll tell the stories in the fiction section,
waiting my turn among the others who dare to dream.