Because I breathe, do I live?
Is that proof enough for my existence?
Or am I an oddity among ghosts?
Does my breathing sustain life?
Or am I merely imagining?
Can I be real if no one sees me?
Is my beating heart just a mirage
Brought forth from a lack of acceptance?
Is my skin invisible,
Recognized by only me?
Can my existence not be confirmed
With human eyes?
Am I only a floating conscience?
Am I formed from the guilt of others
So that they might carry on unscathed?
Do I allot myself human actions
Just to fool myself?
Am I wholly forgotten?
Or was I never known,
Of no importance to anyone thicker than imagination?
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