Do I call myself a writer?

When the pictures in my head differ,

I see men in tweed, cigar and whiskey,

Women in turtlenecks, steaming cup of tea.

The dread of the calling beseeches me,

I want to be of whiskey and tea,

Though my mind is fraught with fear,

Time and time again calling imposter.

Do I call myself a writer?

The idea binds me in a gutter.

One I cannot release from,

The fear holds strong in form.

Fear for words racing in my head, not on a page,

Thoughts not of matter to the age,

I am weary of wondering in fear,

Time and time again if I am indeed an imposter.

Do I call myself a writer?

Will I find my place ever?

The noise from flavors of all the pages that surround me,

The noise from which seem to have no note for me.

Profound thought morsels from those in tweeds and turtle necks,

Mine will never be amongst the masters I want to match,

Do I ever find myself in my words,

Perhaps I am indeed an imposter.