Misguided Ghosts Haunt Themselves

Sits alone in darkened rooms caressed by the harsh black of the beast inside,
Missing piece's lead to wandering nothing-ness,
Floating on the wind of life that has yet to blow you far enough away,
Blow life back inside your empty chest and breath a soul into your being.

Pain inside your transparent soul,
Looked through like solid sand until the twisted glass crumbles and you drift along the shore,
Feel the hurt inside the heart that is not real and dare say I do not feel it,
Dare say I do not hurt inside just because I do not exist.

Deny me entry to holy places because of my unfinished jigsaw,
Smite me out until I fall for seven days and land in burning heat,
Tingle across my reflective skin until I know I must be real to feel pain as this,
Deny me my truth when I can feel no more than this.

For I must exist. I must be real and alive if I can feel so much hurt.
How can a ghost feel pain when it walks so carelessly through sharpened objects?
How can a spirit hurt inside his chest when you can see straight through it and know you seen no pain inside?
How can the floating wind scream into the skies if he is the sky itself?

Therefore I must be real.

Because death could never hurt as much as life.