There are millions of thoughts in my mind.

Sometimes pondered on certain trivial things—

Like how someone can be such a rare find,

Or mostly overthinking about my lingering feelings.

Am I even real in this world?

Or am I just a pawn in somebody's game?

Maybe in the hands of an author I am curled,

In which to turn me into a perfect character is his aim.

For my life is not even mine to begin with—

For the life that I'm living is not even my own.

I will forever live on pages in a bind,

Knowing that I was not even real but

only alive in a writer's mind.