empty
mess
my soul;
compressed.
I feel like a living ghost;
trapped in a happy, smiling host-
Someday-
some ray,
some sun,
some dash of air-
will blow through my cover
my sheet of a mask,
and somebody,
somewhere
will notice
my fleeting transgression
flitting across a now-pained expression.
And then?
The charade is up.
Time to turn in my skin-
throw away that smile
I'd been living in.
For what is a ghost
but a ghoul
and a trick?
not made to be real
existing to be sick.
I wish I could let someone under my cover
smile real easy
to a friend;
or a lover.
But those don't exist,
when you're a ghost
and you're sick.
