We are sick,
Our minds,
Our souls,
They slowly become numb,
Our eyes, the windows to our souls,
are empty.
Walking, talking, yet aren't really living.
We go through our day to day lives,
some of us looking at something that isn't even there.
Because of all the hurt that was thrown at us,
We develop a shell,
our armor.
We aren't moaning or stumbling,
nor do we feast on the flesh of others,
or maybe we do.
Peeling others down to their core
thrusting pain towards them.
Maybe
We're just the real zombies.
