There are labyrinths
Strewn about my room
Notebooks of stories
That will never be finished

How could I forget my attempt
at a crime thriller
with hints of horror
Whose main character is framed for arson
and the person who helps clear his name
turns out to be a ghost

Or my dystopian knock-off
From fifth or sixth grade
That will never progress past
A verbose exposition

I still have hope
For my noire from a year ago
that I have rewritten
Time and time again

There are many others, I’m sure
Tucked away in boxes or closets
Tales long since forgotten
full of blank pages
Never to be filled