I had sat up this very evening, staring at the clock.

The hand ticked past the half way mark.
The change in my pockets rested silently as I stood up.

The milk I had left on the touble laid stale and warm.
The sips of the milk left my stomach growling of anger.
Nor did I not stop drinking the milk, nor did I think this threw.

I reached for the bowl, to my surprise there was no cereal.
A cold sigh had slipped threw my grasp.

Their I sat stomach rumbling, mind grasping on to the vivid images that strolled threw my eyes.

I grabbed the pen and paper.
Wrote as I pleased.
Of the daily life I have lived.

Stories to be told, ears to tell of the stories.
There I was with the silver tiped pen and the white lined paper.
Writing as I pleased.

Will any one stroll these very lines and hear the story to be told.
Where will we go when all the books in the world have bin burned.

Oh how I wonder how many stories there is to be told.
And how many souls to tell.