I don’t know what to do today,
I’m feeling rather strange,
I would love to write my life away,
but am sure I couldn’t manage.
It’s called imposter syndrome,
I believe I don’t believe,
I’m good enough to take a broom,
to sweep away the leaves
of my writer’s life.
After all, is said and done
I’m only a bloody writer,
Of novels just for fun.
I get desperately weird,
and empty in my head,
I want to run a mile,
and hide instead.
My left hand is for words,
my right is there to lean on.
I love you my readers old and new,
please tell me you love me too!
