Ghosts

Ghosts are real.

Haunted by something long gone,

Dead, I haunt myself.

Ghosts, they float in my room,

Bouncing off the walls,

Surrounding me with what once was.

Eight years old,

I stand in the corner, crying,

It echoes in my head—

Haunted by my past.

Ghosts are real.

They don’t break glasses or close doors,

They evoke fear much greater than an unexplainable incident.

They haunt you with a cruel reality—

Something far worse than floating books.

The truth.

I am haunted. By the truth