I'd write you a story if I could

I can never write a story with an end.

When I know it'll all be but a wasteful indulgence

When you will never know where the plot is taking you,

Why will you follow the lead?

Why would you willingly-

sigh away hours and hours of one's time,

Dreaming about a world with only the horizon in sight.

So, maybe I might never write a story.

For the ones which would seep through my head

Are the ones which make no sense.

For the stories I have, never seem to end.

I spent years serenading plots that start out like a firework,

I have spent afternoons with characters who all had their life sorted by the end.

Spilled words over the pages just to change the linearity of my life,

Showing how to resolve the fight, proving how to end the lie.

All of them but a suit that seemed to fit everybody but me.

I was writing about arcs I didn’t believe in,

And apologies that would never be enough to revive the bond.

I tried my best to cleanly tie the ends,

But they only made life look like a messy maze.

I wondered if my stories would end when I stop writing them?

If every word I type will wither away along with the prose?

I wondered if I didn’t write, would they fade out in my mind as well?

Or would they survive the end of me, and continue living somewhere?

Maybe within some unknown known's heart for a few if not couple years?

What if I end it right here?

Would that be enough to make sense?

Would that not prove me incompetent?

Won’t that go against my own beliefs?

Maybe I should end it before I even begin,

Just so I don't have anything to look back,

No sentences that have a piece of me,

And no paragraphs that whisper my name.

But I could never watch them fade away,

Because the stories I wrote were never meant to die.

But what do I do to get my stories to live a life of their own?

Should I stop before I end them or just never begin?

Maybe I could keep writing, make it look like I didn’t really put in the effort.

Make it look oh so easy, maybe then I wouldn’t have to face the truth,

The reality of someone reading what I write,

and then considering it their lost moments of time.

-s