Ghost
Sometimes I have the feeling
A ghost is following me
Throwing me up with paper beads
And stitches me with needles.
He's the kind of a type
But loves to bully me
Only me
Nobody else
His white, dead eyes shining
If he looks at me
His pale cheeks always turns red
If I look at him
Sadly he knows I can't see him
And sad is also that I know
He never can reaches me.
