Once I watched a fly,

struggle against a web,

I stared as it twitched in horror,

knowing it would soon be dead.

Ever so gently,

a small brown spider

stepped on to its

white, glossy trap.

Maneuvering forward

to claim her prize,

with protruded fangs,

I grabbed a twig and pulled off the fly,

sitting it on a nearby leaf,

until it’s wings were free and dry.

I looked back to the spider,

who felt the wrath from my stick,

to see it hit the pavement.

Upon reaching the ground,

small spots scattered near my feet,

and I watched

as the baby spiders


ate their own mother.

Oh, the irony

of struggle.




Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741