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