If I were a book would I make a good read? Would anyone care to see the pages in me? Chances are, I'd sit on a shelf. A somewhat new book that's covered in dust. I'd ask myself this, such an ordinary life. Who would want to read of my pains and my strife? Even I realize there's much better stories, the ones that are read - no they never worry.

I guess that I shouldn't, no I really can't complain. There are thousands of books here that look just the same. You have to be great if you expect to be read. So here I will lie as my pages turn yellow, to dream of that day my cover will open. That day yet to come when my binding will bend, the day that my pages will finally be read.

If I were a song would anyone long to hum or to sing me? Would the words in each line - would they speak of the hopes, of those dreams...