Ghost Poems

by Akshat Thakur

One would think that the sky would crash,
The heavens up above as well would shake;
Prevent the world from turning to ash,
Pray and ask the lord my soul to take;

I am Innocent.

The truth masked by a thousand lies;
Excellent structures crumbling down;
A boy with no faith, just weary eyes;
Execution to entertain the entire town;

I am Aware.

The fierce fire in the boy’s eyes burns
Brighter than that his bones augment;
Secrets turned lies; as the earth turns,
I live on, centuries later as cement;

I am Relevant.

Scriptures disregarded and the holy
Churches are null but tourist places;
I crawl back to the universe slowly,
Enlightened times and racing faces.

I am Here.

The Ghost Inside
I’m not a doctor, I’m not your cure,
I’m not the medicine that you long for;
I’m not a lifeline, I’m not the boat,
I’m just the salt that’ll keep you afloat.

I stare at the noise, drawn to the void,
Conversations that I’ll craftily avoid;
I’ll walk off the earth, dying since my birth,
Keep running till my bones hit the dirt.

Under the shower, let the hotness devour,
And the water sink into my eyes like a rotten flower;
I’ve got the deadest face, I’m just a waste of space,
I’ll let my heart run free as my soul loses grace.

I’m not a doctor, I’m not a remedy,
I’m just an amalgamation of fading memory;
I’m not a lifeline, I’m not a boat,
I’m just the cross hanging by your throat.

I’m a faulty part, I’m a worthless state of art,
I’m the pitch black darkness inside of your heart;
I’m a book of woes, I’m the thorns of a rose,
I’m the path that leads to the hell that everybody goes.

The ink that I use, it poisons the youth,
It corrodes and swallows the actual truth;
I’m your other side, and in mirrors I hide,
I am your true self and the ghost inside.

I’m not a doctor, I’m not your cure,
I’m just an element of substances unpure;
I’m not a lifeline, I’m not of help,
I’m just the holy book lying on your shelf.

Writing Style
Here. An anonymous scene
With simmering discontent,
Two corrupt souls dressed
In rusting gold from head
To toe, both wearing a face
Of blatant woe.

Here. A gated community.
We are sanitized so subtly;
The best looking prison
Of all time, this little world.
This is chaos but we,
We call it class.

Here. A question they ask,
Stemming from insecurities:
“How dare you?” and they,
They might be right. After
All, the physiologist says:
Fight or flight.

Here. A book mirroring every
Aspect of what was, what is
And everything that will be.
The plebeians watch gleefully,
The nobles acknowledge the
“Writing style”.

The Death of an Optimist
I’m laying in a bathtub with my face down,
My lungs fill with water as I hold my breath.
The swan songs play in the background,
All I need is to be free, and finally, I see death.

I’ve been waiting for a perfect day,
When I look at them, the stars fade away.
I am tired, I am sick, I am not okay,
I hope my body disappears through the drain.

I feel one with the water as my bones dissolve,
All the labels and memories buried twelve feet deep.
I will die as one with integrity and resolve,
So, I tell myself, worthless boy, don’t you breathe.

I’ve been waiting for a perfect day,
Thinking maybe I could run away.
Now I know I will never be okay,
I’ll drown myself to numb the pain.

There’s no surviving this,
Good times never last even if they exist.
I can’t help but give in,
This is the death of an optimist.

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