My zombie hands clatter across the keyboard
the keys rattle and quake and words appear
but I can't read them.
My zombie breath shoots forth as I cough
hacking upon my own dead failure!
How could it have come to this? What have I done
to deserve my grave so early?
To be a workaholic has it's toll, and
my zombie emotions don't mind,
my zombie mind doesn't comprehend...
It's weird seeing nothing but shades of grey and
just wishing that there would be florescent greens
in my death-time.
{Short, simple. I have a hacking cough and no sense of feeling or empathy whatsoever for anybody. Please comment, this is probably going to be the last poem I write for at least another year... or ever, considering nobody reads them. Also if you're bored, read an interpretation I will post later... here... on this thread.}
