Zombies are the walking dead
To **** them shoot them in the head
Your flesh is their favorite treat
If you see one be fast on your feet

If you look at them all you'll see
Is a disgusting flesh eating disease
I don't want to meet one that's for sure
For the walking dead there is no cure

Let's hope there's never an invation
That we stay a zombie free nation
Because there's one thing I don't want to be
That's a walking rotting zombie

The days stretched out to several inches thick:
such wakefulness lives beyond the orange glow.

With each guillotine-morning
came a syncopated lullaby
that danced with delusion and
mirrored the nothing sky.

That evening, I saw the waltz
of human tragedy performed
by all the wailing trees.

Walking down Waugoo Street, wading
through the water: fists folded in silk-lined
pockets, in awe of the misting droplets
that silently encompassed me.

Yellow gloss across the walls—the
mirror mocked from down the hall
and taken to the shrieking room, with
orange-stutter seeping fast into
my crying on the kitchen floor: realizing
there might be nothing more, than the
emptying of existence—framed in the
decaying swings of a metronome, and
loss left lingering on the phone. Of

feelings surely found by faded tongues, and
the blood that pools to the bottom of my
lungs.

Out among the trees
The only place I feel like me
No pressure to please
Nothing pushing conformity
The rocks and the soil
Allow me to pass by kindly
The trees and their leaves
None of them judge me
I lay my palms to their bark and
I feel all of their energies
Together they collide with mine
They share this life with me
I respect the power in nature
And I don't wish to control it
So alone I roam through the forest
But I am never lonely
And whenever I'm feeling lost
I know I'm never too far away
I can go get lost in the green
To find myself again

A flash of unripe banana green hair,
And the solemn padding of thumbs hitting a screen,
The wisp’s of dying flame,
A worn sticker on a pure evening blue water bottle,
The tight warm grip,
Of a beanie on my head,
The soft wind that air vents disperse,
The crisp smell of a sparse winter’s day,
Like wasabi, but clogging my nose instead of cleaning it,
The din of speaking and eating in a popular coffee shop,
And I’m just on my way to class

An emergency macaroon
on a boulevard, in March,

Because my sugar levels dropping,
mind foggy, dopamine high crashing;
because legs aching; I can’t unknot
the multi-coloured tangles this evening;
because yesterday; because I said yes; because.
Because you never said in so many words.

You say there is cloud cover
with chance of rain, but you know there
will be rain because you have a headache.
You can tell but you can’t say.