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  • Writer's pictureLauren Spardello
    • 1 min read

The Poems I Never Wrote

The poems I never wrote don’t exist anymore

In a tragedy greater than Alexandria’s Library

They’ve been burned by a righteous flame

To the point where not even ashes remain


Executed by a creature made out of words

It steals them

From the paper

From my mouth

Unlike the poems, unlike myself, the creature has a purpose


To punish me for my hubris

For thinking I deserve anything

But its actions are also a form of mercy

Cleansing my brain of its failure


The poems I never wrote would never amount to anything

They just took up space I didn’t have to spare

I would have forgotten about them anyway

So why am I upset?


The poems I never wrote are left unread

Even by myself

I just watch them burn


After John Brehm

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