Ghost
I can think to fill up my mind.
The space used is cracking the sides of my skull.
And yet it is still nothing.
So much nothing.
A ghost leaving footprints in the snow.
Where am I?
I fight with that question everyday.
I stare quizzically at the ceiling
making it uncomfortable.
To what end can thoughts mean anything
if they are not expressed or given life through art?
Is it just a thought that falls up into the sky?
Never to return?
Or even after we give it a name and collar
does it still fail to stand with the living?
A butterfly doesn't think about how it was once
a caterpillar. So why do I?
I can't exist without questions but God I wish I could.
They never end.
If I don't give them attention, give them breath
than they too are just ghosts leaving footprints.
And I can't let that happen.
So day after day its me, my mind and my body.
All saying one thing but meaning another.
And I the blind interpreter must read all their complaints.