Thud, Thud, Thud, Thud
He trudges forward feet soaked in mud
Eats your brains, lips glossed with your blood
Sorry, that's not how this poem goes
He no longer heard the chirping of birds
The smell of the sea meant nothing to him
The colors of the sunset were black and white
He stared dead in the eye if someone tried to fight
She no longer tasted the richness of chocolate
She couldn't care less for beliefs or fate
Emotions were foreign and love was alien
Suicidal thoughts were a daily companion
Motivational quotes and speeches made him scoff
Rosy smells and scented candles made him cough
Fancy razors replaced money in her purse
The stick and light now made her feel worse
One foot in front of the other, their subconscious said
Their organs were sentient and worked at will
Consciousness, however, was a different story
For though parts moved, their minds lay still
They spoke without zest, like programmed robots
They made love without passion, out of habit
There was nothing to live for, no raison d'etre
They were sleeper cells, zombies on a clock
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 3:46 PM UTC
Thud, Thud, Thud, Thud
He trudges forward feet soaked in mud
Eats your brains, lips glossed with your blood
Sorry, that's not how this poem goes
He no longer heard the chirping of birds
The smell of the sea meant nothing to him
The colors of the sunset were black and white
He stared dead in the eye if someone tried to fight
She no longer tasted the richness of chocolate
She couldn't care less for beliefs or fate
Emotions were foreign and love was alien
Suicidal thoughts were a daily companion
Motivational quotes and speeches made him scoff
Rosy smells and scented candles made him cough
Fancy razors replaced money in her purse
The stick and light now made her feel worse
One foot in front of the other, their subconscious said
Their organs were sentient and worked at will
Consciousness, however, was a different story
For though parts moved, their minds lay still
They spoke without zest, like programmed robots
They made love without passion, out of habit
There was nothing to live for, no raison d'etre
They were sleeper cells, zombies on a clock