Ghost

I'm a ghost,

nowhere to be,

nowhere to go.


I'm a ghost,

have no real job to go to,

in no hurry,

have no boyfriend to love,

so no worries.

I'm just a ghost.


I'm a ghost,

a loner who may have had it a little too rough,

a writer who writes about it being a little too rough.

I'm a ghost.


Don't know much about the outside world,

just know about my inner world.

No one stays for too long.

No one can really touch me.


I'm a ghost,

with unlimited amount of space to create,

with unlimited amount of time to waste.

I'm just a ghost.

(No one can really see me)


But I can see them,

with a family of their own,

with their dream 9 to 5,

with their husbands, wives,

while I live here

in a house pretty much alone,

with the dead artist's dream,

no husband or kids to call my own

(But damn, I hate kids though)

(And damn do I love my space)


I'm a ghost,

I'm a ghost,

I'm a damn ghost.


Can I really call my life a life

when all I have done is lurk within the shadows?

When the real world does not interest me in the slightest?

On Earth,

I roam for all my days.

No Heaven or Hell.

Just a ghost

without a body to claim my own.

Just roaming,

observing.

Without really being there.


I'm a ghost,

nowhere to be,

nowhere to go.


No place to call home.