Jul 2017
Worlds within me calling for life,
Who am I to deny them breath?
Though lived alone on pen and paper,
Not born again in the minds of others.
Forlorn are their expressions,
When I them tell,
Their stories mean little,
To anyone besides me.
Compelled to write those,
Histories and memoirs of pretend.
I know they can not be.
Mysteries to all not in my head.
Some may see *******,
Perhaps most will, but,
One life touched by,
Worlds imagined is,
Enough to me compel.
Who am I to deny them breath?
Though lived alone on pen and paper,
Not born again in the minds of others.
Forlorn are their expressions,
When I them tell,
Their stories mean little,
To anyone besides me.
Compelled to write those,
Histories and memoirs of pretend.
I know they can not be.
Mysteries to all not in my head.
Some may see *******,
Perhaps most will, but,
One life touched by,
Worlds imagined is,
Enough to me compel.
The urge to write stories isn't something I can ignore. That was the sentiment that inspired this poem. Sometimes I feel like writing stories is a waste of time, particularly because no one else ever reads them. Or, if they do read them, they don't like them. For me, I have to write; it's who I am.
