Who am I?

Who am I to call myself a writer? That I manage to ink a few poorly chosen words to a drug store note book certainly does not make it so.

I see the young ones; so cocksure, chests puffed up with bravado, stealing phrases from the greats like they're their own. How does one come to this place? Surely there's more to it than mothers who over caudal? 

Perhaps it's a case of them hiding it better. This weight that comes over you at the thought of a stranger's eyes falling on your work, or even worse, someone you know.

Maybe, like me, they simply put it out there and let the chips fall where they may.  So sick of doubting themselves, they've already figured out we've nothing left to lose.

You can't put an expiration date on a dream, but you know as well as I do, we're all headed for the casket.

Natasha Head