I move through the halls with barely a glance.

People won't talk to me, won't give me a chance.

They hardly notice if my appearance I enhance.

I am not a ghost.

I spend most of the day inside my head,

Dreaming of what could be instead.

My inner self is hanging by a thread.

I am not a ghost.

I want to talk but my words run dry.

When I speak I get the evil eye.

They get my hopes up then leave them to die.

I am not a ghost.

They never notice that something's wrong.

They don't listen to my song.

They will never sing along.

I might as well be a ghost.