She used to write
Stories, ranging from short stories
To supposedly series,
Mirroring her then favourite
Tales of fairies and camps.
Notebook after notebook
Of handwritten stories,
(Some complete, most incomplete)
Coupled with illustrations
Inspired by the style she adored.
Then came a time
When reality struck her hard.
Her stories were not
Of an up-and-coming young author
She dreamed to be.
Instead they were
Mere adaptations of what she read,
They were just cluttered fragments
Of what she read and her imagination.
Hidden in a box
Lay the notebooks
Once full of pride,
A desolate village
Of stories that weren’t meant to be.