the unread poet

there are lines on pages filling notebooks and notebooks stuffed in a suitcase in the back of a closet that will likely never see the light of day. some rhyme, some have rhythm, and some are just rambling thoughts drawn half-heartedly on a volunteer page. some might speak to someone, giving voice to the restless thoughts and emotions in their heart. others are silly, like word games without structure or form. some are beauty in simplicity, others are random, chaotic, and seemingly meaningless, unless of course one could divine the nature of the writer’s soul by staring at the words written there. but they only collect dust, and will likely never be read by anyone other than he who wrote them. they will eventually be a legacy, a story told in rambling rhyme schemes and odd patterns, usually the story dwells on the loneliness of the writer who penned them out. it’s sad, really. wasted potential, squandered talent of a young mind feverishly attempting to make some sort of sense of the world. in a closet, in a suitcase filled with old notebooks lies the story that will likely never be told. for there’s never anyone around to hear it