The echoing halls are ringing

with the forgotten cries

comming from a raw throat.

Nobody will turn to look at her

as she cries for help,

dying on the inside.

Nobody will hear her

as she screams for attention,

like a ghost.

She is drowning,

she is buning,

she is bleeding,

she is weeping,

she is screaming,

all to no avail.

 

So the hallowed halls echo

with what should have been heard

with what should have been seen,

as she wanders around silently,

listening to the symphony that she made

and staring at the art her body creates.

Her voice is now a whisper,

her body a ghost,

both a product of ignorance,

loneliness,

and self preservation.

 

How soon will it be?

How much time must past,

before I realize that the ghost is me

and all of the stuff that I kept inside myself.

The person who would beg 

the person who would plead to be seen

trapped inside my costume that I wear.

Longing for someone to see past the mask,

the merry charade

and tell me

"I'm here it's okay."

 

And now I'm left with the little ghost

who wanders through my mind,

a side of me that is kept to myself,

wandering the halls of my mind.

Silent,

but not forgotten.

The tiny ghost I will not leave behind.