Most of the times, our love for books make it to the point where we view life in a very idealistic way. We often forget that it’s our job to write our own story–though not perfect, though not ideal–it’s something real, it’s something we can call us ours.
Every night, I read a book
Few chapters, that’s all it took
I shed tears, got me so hook
Reality – just stop and look
Every night, I fall in love
Watching the night sky above
Books, where worlds are contrived
I’d dive in and live inside
Every night, I stay awake
Thinking why we always have to wait
Fiction is a bastard bait
One day.. I’ll meet you, mate
when words blend 