You look familiar.
I think I’ve seen you here before.
Perhaps you wore yourself a different face;
One of plastic, or perhaps it’s just mâché.
Either way, I’m still happy to see you.
Even if it is fake.
It’s been a while since I’ve felt okay.
I’m dying inside and have no one left to say,
“It’s but a day in the shade of many.”
I lay awake and cling to fleeting dreams
as if I myself could master their wings.
Maybe one day I’ll find the seam
they seem to keep on slipping through.
Who would want such a pathetic thing?
I’m a deadbeat and have been since birth.
The zombie boy’s alone in his own world,
chewing up a storm with his mangled throat.
Here I go again, talking to myself
like there’s a single ounce of hope.