Ghost

To her I am a ghost.
Haunting my working room, appearing only to startle and upset.
An apparition met with frustration, oh how I move the dishes about.
Rattling silverware and stealing cups.
“Get out spirit!” She may cry.
“Let me return to my peace”
Yet what does a ghost do?
It’s mere existence an affront.
It’s presence a thing to be wary.
An omen, perhaps.

To the world I am a ghost.
Floating down the road when it rains.
A thing to cross the street to avoid.
I try not to be a bother, but it seems my visage is ghastly.
It takes what it can from the ghost, tidings, warnings, favor.
But then begone, you are not meant to be here.

I am a ghost.
My past, a blur of traumas and mistakes.
Moaning names of those who have wronged me.
I haunt homes when fools dare bring my relics into them.
I can’t let go, can’t move on.
A ghost is not reborn, it is exercised.