It feels very strange to consider myself an author. I didn’t set out to become a writer let alone achieve the impossible. Believe it or not, I actually wet myself as I sat my English GCSE exam during the endless summer of 1986. My exam paper resembled wet toilet paper that had been trampled on by a hedgehog, sweating like a dyslexic on countdown. Children who are subjected to neglect, physical and mental abuse inevitably have issues at school. I write because it heals the many wounds of childhood trauma. I write because it heals the scars of war, addiction and my endless struggle with mental health.My life thus far,is incomprehensible. I contemplate the simple question many times how and why I am alive. My birth name I left in the sand dunes of Iraq, the man I became would be the personification of my tormented childhood. The individual I have struggled to be for decades is a man blessed beyond measure. Once you have turned the last page, you decide what you think about this author. My name is Auguste Knuckles, father, husband, friend, chef, soldier, recovered drug addict author and urban poet.