Staying up despite the pounding headache,
as my ghost grins at me from the mirror,
The same lines circling my brain like a snake,
wishing for miracles because I can't face my fears.

I know I hate myself but at this point I'm numb,
to my ghost padding along in my shadow,
just like I can't feel the thud as I hit the canvas,
or the cold of another night surrounded and alone.

I hate my voice that's so full of cliches,
but I'm a fraud poet so they're all I have,
I keep saying the same things over and over,
and expecting my ghost to listen this time.