The Story Teller

He felt overwhelmed
By the untold stories crowding the room.
Each person has a story,
And a past.
He could not help but try to imagine them all,
Wrongly of course.
That handsome guy in the corner,
With the raven hair and arresting eyes;
Maybe he hates what he sees in the mirror,
Maybe he hates who he is inside,
His beautiful exterior
A mask for misery.
That girl who speaks so eloquently
Who seems so bright, so self-assured,
Maybe she’s fighting off panic with every step.
The man sitting quietly in the corner,
Avoiding everyone’s eyes;
Maybe he’s got a huge online persona,
Maybe he’s the life and soul in other walks of life.
He saw stories, not faces,
Everywhere he turned,
And not knowing the true stories
Caused him great anguish,
But the true stories, once heard
Were often wholly unremarkable.
And so he would continue to imagine,
Blindly ascribing lives to the sad,
The mad, the bad
And to the mediocre too.
For what did his face hide,
If not the soul of a storyteller?

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