Stories I carry

What are stories?

Stories are the things we tell ourselves.

A man sitting close to another,

Cannot telepathically know the woes of the other.

I have a story.

You have a story too.

Stories are the experiences we’ve acquired.

Some disclosed,

And the others enclosed in our inner soul.

If I tell you my story,

will you let me take the glory?

Like ants in a maze,

We live amiss everyday.

For we all live in an abstract world,

We obscure reality with dead hope.

Instead we say, ‘All’s well that ends well,’

No!

Let’s tell our stories!

I’ll borrow the mic from the students who never gets an A.

I’ll take the marker and I’ll write my horrific story on the board.

What is my story?

Well, my story is a part of me and like others

I tell no one.

She saw me lost in my thoughts.

And she asked me: ‘What’s your name?’

I told her my name.

Then she asked me: ‘What’s the story behind it?’

Seeing me flabbergasted,

She told me, ‘There’s always a story behind everything.’

Fine!

Fine!

I’ll tell you all my story.

But first, Why am I writing this?

I lay on my bed,

Writing with a black pen.

What do I wish to gain by telling my story?

I don’t want pity.

These vain people do not want to know the true story

My words are scattered.

And my poetic form is so disarrayed

They wonder, ‘What is she saying?’

My language style is so simple,

Yet it obfuscates the reader.

Check again if there is a typo in my verse form.

I am a girl with no shame to share my ridiculous story.

We all have stories.

We all have our follies too.

Looking out of my window,

I can see the ‘renewed hope.’

I wept.

For nobody wants to know

The disturbing stories we carry.

And by the way,

I’ll never share my story.

Because that’s the one thing left

That makes me unique.

And that is the story that I’ll forever carry.