The silos are calling

I wrestle with my worth as a writer and a reader. Are my accolades representative of my body of work or is it vice versa? Am I not as crafted as friends? They, too, are distinguished poets. They are recognized by their peers. They have proximity to what seem to be my goals. Am I still good?

My writing comes from a different space, gathered in between the folds that whiteness creases. It's a subtle defiance. It's an epistle in a world of preachers. It mocks the system by engagement. Unfortunately, the bell rarely tolls for me. It rings loudest for experiences I've read about, only to draw parallels. I found my voice in a book. It was amplified on stage. My worth is in my words.

Is that a commodity? Am I worth less when I'm less engaged? What's the cost of true craft? Writers are critical competitors. It masks our self-righteous fears. In an era where self-promotion and proximity solidify relationships that garner recognition, how do we truly know if we are good writers? The silos are calling.