Originally posted in my blog, Things we never say-the power of word of mouth.


In his dusty room,

As he calls it, "my little cocoon,

With a smile, he creates a paradise,

For a while,  his troubles fade,

The joy of creating a character,

The happily ever after,

He begins  with once upon a time,

We cry, we laugh as we move with the rhythm,

He gets carried away, he rises and falls with the flow,

In a way, the peak gives the end of a story,and a start of his own.

His own, that may never be told,


The noisy typewriter, tattered pieces of paper all over the floor,

The lonely writer, he knows not of the new technology,

Wishes to live like his characters, like his own creation,

Confined in his own thoughts, he wonders back in the days,

When he wrote for fame, never thought he'll  do it for life,

His own is interesting, he knows not of how to write it.

He wishes to tell his own, but if only wishes were horse,

Poor old storyteller, how will his story end.


Maybe someday, there will be, Adventures  of the storyteller.

Published by mary muema