I was born a ghost; I am not worthy.

I can feel the pulse of everything around me and it slows,
perhaps my time is slowing too, and my mothers and my non-existant fathers.
Some people were born to live, and to flourish and to grow, and then there's the others.
The outliers.
The non-conforming, poor/talented/broke and hungry.
The malnourished spiritually and literally.
I am of no purpose but to prolong the agony of those around me and to irritate and itch at the mouths of the ones I love, like a fly on a fresh scab.
Where is the beauty?
It's long since left and every day I scratch further and further into the soil.
I don't want to leave this bed of dreams, I am getting nowhere.
I have nothing, I have made you cry.
And how much it agonizes me to hear you cry, and to want to cry, and to hear those cries, no matter how fast or how long I travel away from you.
I can hear the march of the suicidal.
I can hear the drums of a madman asking me to march and I am walking.
I am walking because I need to walk.
I am walking for an escape and to meet others with substance and substances.
I am walking because it is innate that we walk.
I am walking because I have no memory of my childhood, and because I am filled with bitterness that does nothing but hurt, and hurt unintentionally.
I was born a ghost;
I am not worthy.