The marathon you never ran.

you walk in,
and there they are
lined up like medals
from battles you never fought.
each spine a lie,
each title a wink.

The Glass Bead Game
yeah, right.
it’s been there longer than your last job,
but hey,
it looks good on the shelf.
a perfect conversation killer
you never actually join.

A Gentleman in Moscow,
fancy title, fancy font,
untouched by human hands.
it says, “I appreciate the finer things,”
but really,
you appreciate looking like you do.

Crime and Punishment
all punishment, no crime.
it sits there like a law degree you never earned.
you like to say you’ve “been meaning to read it,”
but that’s a lie
and you know it.

Don Quixote
you’d love to tell people you’ve read this.
you’d love to pretend you get all the references.
but the truth?
you barely made it past “windmill.”
it just looks good there,
like a medal from a marathon
you never ran.

Moby Dick
the whale you claim to have harpooned,
but in reality,
you bailed at chapter three.
and yet, there it sits,
a monument to your literary ambitions
another empty boast.

Ulysses
oh, the big one.
the heavyweight.
you’ve never even cracked the spine,
but damn, it feels good
to own a copy.
you hope no one ever asks you about it.

Gravity’s Rainbow
you love to drop that title
at dinner parties,
“oh, I’ve got Gravity’s Rainbow on my shelf.”
but here’s the truth:
you don’t even know what it’s about.
it’s just there for decoration,
like a fake plant.

The Brothers Karamazov
three brothers you’ve never met,
and never will.
but they’re Russian,
so it makes you look deep.
you think the sheer weight of it
makes people assume you’re smarter
than you actually are.

and Finnegans Wake
don’t make me laugh.
you’ve never even opened it.
you bought it because it’s the ultimate “look-how-smart-I-am” book.
but guess what?
no one’s buying it.
least of all, you.

In Search of Lost Time
oh, you found it.
it’s right there,
next to all the other things you’ll never finish.
a monument to time you never had
and never will.

The Sound and the Fury
Faulkner’s masterpiece,
and your alibi.
you made it through ten pages,
but nobody needs to know that.
they just need to see it on the shelf.
silent and smug.

Atlas Shrugged
so did you.
picked it up, put it down.
it’s Ayn Rand’s brick of a book,
but the only thing it’s holding up
is your delusion that you’ll ever read it.

and Infinite Jest
the final joke,
the one that’s on you.
you keep saying you’re “working on it.”
sure you are.it’s been sitting there for years,
unfinished, untouched.
just another trophy
for a game you never played.

so why keep them?
to show off, to bluff,
to fool anyone who steps into your room.
they’re not books,
they’re props in a play
you’re too lazy to star in.

and deep down,
you know they’re laughing at you.
and the punchline?
it’s you,
pretending you earned them.