Only scribbles

The thoughts in my mind are quite well framed. I find myself fantasizing to be an author.

Who would be interested in an unknown gal’s inner most emotions, I question myself. Then the reply comes maybe no one maybe someone or maybe everyone and I begin the journey.

As I pour out my ideas my experiences my feelings on to the blank page all I can think of is whether I make any sense. Then the answer comes, to me I do .

Were I to write I become a writer but then again I aint a story teller. I can rhyme but then again I aint a poet. I can talk about life but then I aint a guru or the ancient one.

But then I write coz that is all what I know to do.

Sometimes I want to believe, I dream that the world will read my book, gift my book to their loved ones then I hear a laugh and I wake to my inner fears ridiculing me.

I don’t need to be held as an equal to a Sidney Sheldon, an Emily Bronte.

I know I can only read a Shakespeare let alone be compared to his brilliance.

I stay grounded but then once just once I would like to spread my wings and fly high beyond the sky