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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