I sit and wait as I listen to every single tick of my own clock
Plastered on the wall or maybe just a resonating sound in my own head
Tick... tock... What do I have?
Nothing but emptiness. A vast world yet to fill.
I am the boy who writes.
No one seems to bother talk, I may be that uninteresting or what.
It doesn't matter though as long as I reach the heart of the girl who reads.

I am the girl who reads.
I may expect more of my own simple life.
Knock... knock... Do I have to wake up?
Are books that influential? or am I fooling myself in a world of make-believes?
Salt and pepper are almost the same as the sprinkles of literature.
I've got hope... more faith.
Waiting for... my only boy who writes.