top of page
  • Writer's pictureLauren Spardello

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

Related Posts

See All


An honest mess- A rain cloud affair; Nothing more than clothes in the corner piled high on the chair, Your mouth says a name- doesn’t seem to know mine. Who knows if you’ll ever say what you mean? Mes

Spilled Ink

What if spilled ink Was nothing more than Dense words compacted On your muddled page? Not a mess to mop up, But a message to sort out. What sort of message Would we find in the Deep recesses of our pe

First Blush

The ephemeral glow of the sun, rising above the ocean. Light rays reach out, like the hands of a god offering eternal tranquility. Gossamer glaze covering photographs that never do justice to reality.


bottom of page