The Lost Stories
Stories that need attention but how can I find the time?
I would love to be left alone
But then, I would be lonely.
Who wants to push people away,
To the margins?
Those you love should not be extraneous notes,
Scribbles on the side.
And because I love them
They are the centre of all I do:
The content.
I only want to be left alone to write,
Sometimes.
So, how then, to find the time
To write?
I don't.
I have pockets which present themselves,
Tempting and tantalising,
As serene moments of stillness
Between the cooking and carting and chaos
Of my life.
At these times,
I am enclosed in a world of my own making.
The quiet before breakfast
When others sleep
And birds flit outside.
The seconds where others are occupied
Happily
With gangsters and shootouts,
With kicks or sticks,
Controlled by controllers.
When my loved ones are absent
With the others
Who also count to them.
In the part-time hours of the day
Where chores are completed
Or betrayed by me
For my love of composing,
And I delve naughtily into
The written word,
Mulling over vocab instead of the mundanity
Of menus
And laundry.
I love to explore my mind.
A germ of an idea, small and crisp
Just waiting to emerge.
It needs cajoling from its home
And sometimes it is swift, breaking out
With a fervour of typing
Smooth and accomplished
Like a charismatic gigolo -
Engaging, alluring and hard to resist.
But, at other times, it can be tricky to coax out
Like a feral cat:
And when the thread that is leading it to me
Becomes frayed by duty and attention elsewhere
And it is on the verge of being lost,
Like a marble through a floorboard,
Still it tantalises but how to recover it?
I have lost stories like this.
They sit, desolate and neglected,
Like ruins, half-finished,
But with a romantic appeal,
The outline of their potential sensed, not known.
Or threadbare, close to collapse;
Not like lived in furniture which has seen life
And love in its wear;
No, like a cracked plate
Or a cobwebby corner of a room or
A pile of crumpled clothes.
They need attention but they don't get it -
It's not urgent, like the living stuff.
But, you know, I feel their neglect
Like an ache.
I don't want them to languish unread.
Some could have been shining stars
But will be completed too late
To compete;
Unchallenged.
I want to pick up those threads, seal those cracks
Brighten that corner, iron out those wrinkles!
I want to show off my creations,
The pieces of my mind
Committed to paper, enshrined in words
And I want them to socialise
Glittering and applauded
Like actors at an opening premier.
But those gems will need to remain
Unpolished,
Like heirlooms in an attic,
Lurking, somnolent, waiting to be
Uncovered.
Again.
Maybe in the future.
But not now.
I can smell the curry is ready
And I must go.
Reader insights
Outstanding
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
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Easy to read and follow
Well-structured & engaging content
Heartfelt and relatable
The story invoked strong personal emotions
Compelling and original writing
Creative use of language & vocab
Masterful proofreading
Zero grammar & spelling mistakes
On-point and relevant
Writing reflected the title & theme
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Niche topic & fresh perspectives
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Arguments were carefully researched and presented
Excellent storytelling
Original narrative & well developed characters
Comments (5)
First, while reading this I irritably told my dog to "go away". Oh, irony. Second, "And I delve naughtily into, The written word," - it's NEVER naughty!
Rachel this was so great! It was relatable and honestly encapsulated one of my biggest fears... forgetting a story or losing it or not having the chance to write it down! Brilliantly written and so well said! 💜
That is a lot of words you got down, but it is difficult sometimes, you meed time to create and time with friends, it's all a balance
It's a relatable struggle. Sometimes it's difficult to find the time for yourself. Well done.
This was so sad. When we have too much on our plate and it keeps refilling itself, we have no time for our passion. I loved your poem!