The Ghost Writer

Photo by Ryan Miguel Capili on Pexels.com

I have no body of my own,
I exist in another zone,
I speak up in the microphone,
The voice you hear, another tone.

I shake the shackles of my chain,
I cannot even moan my pain,
They shrug at me with pure disdain,
My existence has been in vain.

And yet, yourself, my words you use,
Constrain me with your own abuse,
Squeeze my essence for your juice.
For the things you must produce.