To Read, Perchance to Dream

It sits there alone, the poor little thing,

with no one to write to and no one to ring.

No one to talk to.

No one at all.

It sits there alone, the poor little thing.

It tries to think, but comes up with nothing.

Not a single idea.

Nothing at all.

It sits there alone, the poor little thing.

It wants to breathe, to speak, to sing.

It wants to laugh, to love, to think.

To be, to hope, to sleep, to dream.

To be something, to do anything.

I sit here alone, this poor little thing.

I’ll never be loved, and I’ll never be free.

Never picked up off this shelf

to share my story with somebody else.