Who am I? A question to be sure. Who is any one of us to the tide of bodies upon the earth. A simple man, with hopes and dreams. Though undeserved, unseen. All trying to make something of ourselves in this hectic world of our own making. Are we truly anybody in the grand scheme of originality? Or by simply trying to be, it makes you the most unoriginal?


I am Brute, I paint, I write. I put words together and call myself a poet, an artist. I am no one, undeserving of all things grand and opulent.

Still here? What else more is there to say. We are all slaves to fate.