She lied still in the dimly lit room.

The deafening silence too much for her ears.

She listens, and hear only the wind outside.

The rattle of her window.

The storm overhead.

A faint spark to the left.

Never too dull for her eyes.

Impossible to see in the daylight.

The smal light is like that of a soup.

Lost and scared.

Cold, and stuck.

Unable to leave,

for the rain traps it inside.

It pangs her heart.

She feel sadness for this faint light.

Be it her imagination, or the truth.

If you believe in the things that bring comfort,

Then does it matter wether it is true or not?

She empathizes with the spirits.

But not the ghosts.

For the souls.

But not their bodies.

She can love a lion,

But not its claws.

She can adore a child,

But not it’s mother.

It doesn’t matter how closely knit two may be.

When the light shines, you cannot hide.

Your flaws cannot be flaunt.

Your actions cannot be justified.

Words cannot be proven.

Your thoughs will not be validated.

You dont understand.

And thats ok.

My mind is a strange place.

One full of turns and alleys.

But behind every door, there are windows.

And through every window,

A room.

My mind is not a olace for everyone.

No one will understand it like i do.

Pieces cannot be put together.

They simply do not fit.

And that is the point.

The puzzle will forever be incompleted.

Like the tasks of a wondering ghost.

Who will forever be stuck searching.

Searching for anything.

But every time they open a door,

They see a window.

And when they pass through that window,

They are in a room.

Facing yet another door.

May the ghosts be stuck in this loop.

It is what they have cursed themselves to.

Questions and questions,

Yet not an answer in sight.

Bookstores flood my mind.

Pages for clouds,

Ripped out of those very books.

Incompleted stories,

That only I will understand.

Just like how I understand we have strayed,

Far,

Far away from the topic.

The task.

You never complete a task.

And may never.

As a curse and a blessing.

Left to fend for yourself.

To watch the sheep feed on their young.

The read how Poe went mad.

Went mad from the voiced in his own head.

I do not wish to be a shepard,

Watching over everyone.

Nor a bookkeeper,

Reading everyone’s stories.

I will not be a baker,

Giving tarts to crying friends.

I wish not to be your friend,

A term that has grown too loose,

Even for myself.

What may you call someone who lingers,

Swaying on the line.

The line between friend and foe.

If one is not a stranger,

Are they my friend?

Must I,

Oh must I respond to every text.

And answer every call.

I do not want to talk.

I wish to be busy walking the streets,

Lingering in my own mind.

So I will sit here and watch,

Watch and listen as my phone rings.

Looking at your contact name and photo.

Wondering why it does not ring a bell.

Because I do not see you.

I have not.

And wish to not.

My mind is a strange place.

Worried about the future,

Yet stuck in the past.

I wish not for my friends now,

But for my friend then.

I wish not for my friends who care about me.

I wish for the friend I cared about.

Who may have not cared about me.

But I did not mind it,

Nonetheless.

Yet while that friend is a ghost to everyone,

Whispered about and mocked,

Stuck in the past.

Stuck in the friendship,

Which they so desperately hate.

While they are a ghost there,

In my mind,

They are a spirit.

A spirit free to roam.

Not that anything is interesting.

May you roam my mind.

May you see how you left me.

Clear,

But not empty.

Lonely,

Yet not alone.

I am left longing for you.

For the friendship you left behind.

For your validation.

For everything which kept me,

From being me.

My mind is strange.

It is a maze.

An abondoned street.

It’s a bookstore,

Full of unfinished and burned books.

But though it is dull,

It is still colorful.

Though blank,

It is not yet boring.

I have friends now to fix that.

Though I wish it not be fixed.

For fixing something,

Replaces the ruined part.

My ruined part is all of me.

The only thing still working,

Is in your hands.

Those cold,

Transparent hands.

That wish for nothing but to steal,

To steal the souls of innocent people.

But do you not remember?

You did not have to steal my own soul.

For I handed it to you,

With my own hands.

I wrapped it in a bow,

And wrong your name on it.

I trusted you with it,

And still do.

But with nothing else.

My soul shall be the only thing you may keep.

And for that,

It is the only thing I lack.