Ghost

I chase this ghost, the essence of this one, called me

As a torturing phenomenon, I watch myself happening

The banality of all the little pieces which make me up

Mocking me all around, in the walls that isolate me

The ground sustaining me, or the air keeping me going

I empathise with the inanimate, because it confronts me

Challenging my complexity with literally solid arguments

By simply passively existing there with me, and just like me

My words are fruit of a rape, once they're fed by thoughts

Which are intruders into my mind, in systematic perversion

And when I delude about this capacity to pursue my desires

They're mere result of my slaveness, sprouting like plagues

Long is the path which I can not even wish enough to quit

I go on without understanding, asking no one: where am I?

But not even this question is genuine, it's all illusion, fake

I don't exist, though I see me, as a silent dismal spectrum

An embarrassing character in this randomly mistaken story

Not for me, or even for the others, but for what is even

More insignificant than I, for a silly meaningless pattern

My blood runs in vain, in pain, insane, a no-winner game

Bleeding

It's not its fault

But its merit

It's its credit and thanks to it

That I'm bleeding now

Though the wound was here already

And had always been aching

It was because of the plaster

Which was placed over carefully

And then ripped out violently

That I'm bleeding so heavily

It's a torrent of blood

That comes out releasing all the dirt

Draining my impurities

I'm bleeding to death

And it's because of the plaster

As I had been constipated

Bearing an inner pressure

That was pushing my organs together

Causing them to malfunction

Killing me slowly

When he pulled out that disgusting crust

Giving birth to a waterfall of pain

That had been hidden inside

Poisoning everything that was still alive

It's all coming out, and it hurts sharp

The bloodletting that will cure me