There once was a girl known as "the storyteller" to everyone but herself.
She wrote and wrote, told story after story, but each word ended up on a shelf.
She wrote stories and riddles, nonsense and rhymes,
But criticized all her works many a time.
"It makes no sense!" she cried, "It all looks wrong!"
"The setting's not set, and the intro's too long!"
But everyone else marveled at the works that she made
In the light of her versions, the originals would fade.
The storyteller's stories were one of a kind,
Not quite status quo, but no one would mind.
Her words flowed like rivers, each plot line unique
She wove her stories threaded with mystique.
All could see this. Alas, all but she
But that, I suppose, is what intrigues me.
Some of the greatest people this world has known
Never saw the pure talent that was their own.
So let the storyteller write and tell stories at her pace,
And she'll become one of the best across all time and space.