THE GHOST OF THE LIVING

My heart is whole, yet empty inside like a house full of memories with no inhabitants to call it home.

I am the waves that clash against the shores; with each tide, I get closer to a goal I’d never reach.

My soul is intact, yet I am a shell of a being.

like an old car collecting dust in a garage filled with nostalgia of a road I’d only see if I lucid dream.

A revolving door that watches as people pass through with no hope of meaning more than what I appear to be.

My spirit is pure, yet I’m stained by my transgressions like a child who loses their innocence through pain.

A ghost of a body that wanders among the living, mimicking a being that is the epitome of a human.

THE BITTER POET