A/N: I wrote this for my Creative Writing I class last year and just rediscovered it. To be honest, I hate poetry, but for some reason I'm quite fond of this piece. Fortunately it's not a true story (in that I've never been to Paris and that I'd never ever let this happen).


Old, Alone, Forgotten

Up on my bookshelf

There lies an imaginary book

With an imaginary past,

But it comes with a lesson nonetheless.

Up on my bookshelf

There lies a weathered, old tome.

The novel has sat there almost its whole life

But has never been opened.

There lies a weathered, old tome

I got in a small shop in Paris.

The book was once in perfect condition

But years of being ignored has done it no justice.

The book was once in perfect condition

And was excited to be read.

I got distracted, however,

And I put the hardback on my shelf.

And I put the hardback on my shelf

Only to forsake it.

Today I remembered,

But when I plucked it from between two novels

It fell from my grasp quite quick.

And when it hit the hardwood ground

It flew open and all the pages fell out.

So now I kneel in front of the broken literature,

Wishing I had remembered before.

The old tome is too damaged to repair;

It is no longer in print,

And I could not find it online.

I am at a loss and am heartbroken

And I shall never again treat a book so.


I hope you liked it, and please review :)