In the woods of frost
Many are lost
Wandering endless almost like a ghost
Soulless like the most in so much exhaust
Cold eyes, vacant of any emotion
Face so stoic with no expression
Walking mindless without any direction
Are these ghosts a product of rejection?
Ghosts discarded by society
Alone and wild, away from sobriety
Pale as they reek of anxiety
They are lost undeniably
For their entirety screams imperfection
Resorting to ejection and isolation
In the world with endless expectation
It's better to be one of its rejection
