Emiley Patterson

Emiley Patterson January 28, 2008

There are many stories in life…

But the only one I have heard (is the one that scratches through the radio, a falsely promised hope)

But the only on I have failed to hear (is the one that dominates the frequencies, offering help to those who need it)

But the only one I see (is the one that is etched in blue ink between the rows of stitches in jeans)

But the only one I fail to see (is the one that allows the good to shine through)

But the only one I can touch (is the one that is slipping in between my fingers)

But the only one that is out of my reach (is the one that is written in the sky on a starry summer night)

But the only one that I have felt (is the one that now lies on a shelf, drenched in the tears of the dying)

But the only one that I cannot materialize (is the one that has been joyfully retold to smiling faces)

But the only one I have shed tears for (is the one that is told in the night by a mother to her dying child)

But the only one that I cannot have (is my childhood, buried in ashes, sure to be ashes itself by now)

But the only one that I can recall (is the one that is laughing at me from behind a bitter memory)

But the only one that I cannot remember (is the one told in a loving home)

But the only one I pay attention to (is the one that is etched in black ink between the lines of my diary)

But the only one I tell to others (is the one that has a sole purpose of collecting dust in a library)

But the only one I live by (is the one that is written in blood on my soul)

By the only one that people die for (is the one that is in the news)

But the only one I truly understand (is the one that haunts me from nightmares of hatred)

But the on I cannot stand (is the )

But the only one I have written (is the one that ripped me away from home)

There are many stories in life, but the only one that I see is the one that is etched in blood between the rows of stitches in an old pair of jeans. There are many stories in life, but the only one I pay attention to is the one that is etched in blood between the lines of my diary. There are many stories in life, but the only one I live by is the one that is etched in blood on my soul.