The victim

Just a poem. No matter how long I run or even fly, I never get there.

The victim

In all the poems

I have been writing

Words showed always

I suffered most

And every victim

On Earth was me, so

Should I whine or I

Should really boast?

But then sometimes

I think it's not me

And it is more like

Somebody's ghost

And that ghost is

Dictating me, but

Usually, this comes

With a cost

Cause I'm a slice of

Toast, inserted

Between two more

Pieces of toast

And in the lunatics

Ward, they ask me:

If I came alone

Or with my host?