If these stories could write themselves

There are but many possible stories
that are gestating within my head
But they die such a infantile death
before they can be transcribed and read

I'd like to blame it on time
or perhaps even on adversity
but the loss is surely mine
to miss out on opportunities

Perhaps you might think me lazy
But oftentimes I happen to wish
that these stories write themselves
and I but smile and relish

Ah, but that is simply wishful thinking
And now I only suffer and  mourn
for the loss of such dear friends
with the blank page I find myself alone

The End

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