body vandal ghost

I spent 10,000 days waiting 
for wings to spring from my back,
to transcend to something better,
to find the “something” that I lack.
But I am not an angel, no,
and I am not a man.
I am just a fuck up
in a really fucked up land.

In 10,000 days I could have made 
a city, carved from glass.
And thrown my rocks and pebbles
‘til it was a cracked and broken mass.
In a way, I guess I did,
I’m a vandal through-and-through.
But I couldn’t find the fucking door—
what else was I to do?

For 10,000 days I could have slept,
or never been at all.
All this time I’ve wasted,
yet how, I don’t recall.
For 10,000 days, I’ve not been sure
if I was ever even made.
Was I living, breathing, real,
or was I nothing but a shade?