The Greatest Stories Never Told

There are but a few, whose pen can mesmerize me
But there is only one whose unused ink completely captivates me
Burned pages who’ve never been given life by words
The meaning of their being has been called absurd
And yet her pen moved, but only on clean paper
The reason why, I haven’t the courage to ask her
Because I know the answer is one meant for those burned pages
It’s one of those tales that can define the ages
But they are placed in this cage, shielded by bars constructed of fears
Rusted by uncried tears, the scratches are her scars she doesn’t want anyone to see
But what she doesn’t understand is that she is beautiful to me
She has these stories she refuses to tell
But who would willingly describe their visits to hell
She is not to blame
But at times, it feels like she thinks, she is her pain
Naked and holding herself while sitting next to these pages
As if she is waiting for the flames to burn her as well
Restricted to bars only she can dissolve
With a puzzle for a lock only she can solve
I want to touch her skin, and show her I’m not here on a whim
Hold her and whisper I’m here for the writer in her
And no matter what may occur, I have pages and ink aplenty
She can practice on my tear soaked lines
She can skim through the words I left behind
I want to hold her hands, look her in the eyes and not say a word
Instead write them all down, lay my head on her chest hear her heart pound
Just so I can add that beat to the scratches of her pen
And hear the melody of her life as she is writing
She has these stories that I am certain can make me cry
She doesn’t have to, but I would like her to try
I would hold her hand and move with it as she writes
So that when she revisits the memories she knows she’s not alone
Let her feel my warmth, when she gets chilled to the bone
Bring her back when she falls too deep
Kiss open the gates of happiness when she falls asleep
The writer in me, is looking for you
The writer in me, wants to know what you’ve been through
The writer in me, is selfish but means well
The writer in me feels you have stories you need to tell
But I don’t have the courage to ask
I don’t have the bravery to request you to remove your mask
I don’t have enough kisses to cover each scar
I don’t have enough words to catch each tear
Why look back after coming this far
Why think back on a storm after the sky just cleared
I can’t even promise I can warm your heart after it’s turned cold
But I just have this feeling your holding on to the greatest stories never told


I have this friend, I met during my days as a poet and host. Now keep in mind that I met more than a few poets and writers in my day. But this lady might have The Greatest Stories Never Told. I am certain that all of us have a past, that we aren’t to keen to share. And we all have pain we would like to forget. But some of us just lead a life where hectic and constant pain and change are a part of it. Its those life’s that hold The Greatest Stories Never Told. And she is once again a step further than those. Its not often that I can see the same pain in someone, and its even rarer to have that person understand the beauty of writing. But writing is a safety mechanism, that doesn’t always need to go to that spot where The Greatest Stories Never Told reside. Sometimes its just a tool to unwind, and find something you might have missed. But my intuition as writer, my past as someone who slept in the dark tells me she has more. She has more than she is showing me, she is more than she is showing me. And that is what this piece is for. Its not for everyone, this one is specific. The Greatest Stories Never Told is a piece just for you. Because I am waiting on The Greatest Stories Never Told.

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