The echoing halls are ringing
with the forgotten cries
comming from a raw throat.
Nobody will turn to look at her
as she cries for help,
dying on the inside.
Nobody will hear her
as she screams for attention,
like a ghost.
She is drowning,
she is buning,
she is bleeding,
she is weeping,
she is screaming,
all to no avail.
So the hallowed halls echo
with what should have been heard
with what should have been seen,
as she wanders around silently,
listening to the symphony that she made
and staring at the art her body creates.
Her voice is now a whisper,
her body a ghost,
both a product of ignorance,
and self preservation.
How soon will it be?
How much time must past,
before I realize that the ghost is me
and all of the stuff that I kept inside myself.
The person who would beg
the person who would plead to be seen
trapped inside my costume that I wear.
Longing for someone to see past the mask,
the merry charade
and tell me
"I'm here it's okay."
And now I'm left with the little ghost
who wanders through my mind,
a side of me that is kept to myself,
wandering the halls of my mind.
but not forgotten.
The tiny ghost I will not leave behind.