The room is broken but I can't get out.
My head won't tell the time about
the story I'm supposed to live,
the meaning I'm supposed to give.
I am here and I am there
but I don't think I'm anywhere.
I sink my eyes beneath the sound--
a song of empty all around.

And I am not haunted.

My words are whispers when I shout.
I am broken but I can't get out.
My past does not exist in books.
I wonder how my future looks.
I tread a path into the air.
Climbing stairs no longer there.
Humming with a hint of breath
the song that carried me to death.

And I am not haunted.

Time holds tight but cannot love
the flimsy hope my form is of.
And the thing that haunts me most
is that I am the ghost.