I still remember
the night of the living dead
a tempestuous night
when we should’ve stayed inside
the weight of “beloved” stones up on our heads

I heard stories about
vengeful deceased
coming back to life
but if we’re full of hatred
why are we laying side by side?

I buried you
you buried me
but now we are just deteriorating
rotting flesh wandering around
when we should’ve rested in peace

I'm going places
And nowhere good
Leaving the neighbourhood
Of blurry faces

I'm going places
Misunderstood
I would stay, if I could
I'm changing bases

A lonely path
Accompanied by me and myself
Let out a laugh
The past, they think know hell

I'm losing grasp
Spiralling straight into wonderland
Why didn't they hold my hand?

Topsy turvy
My perspectives change
I hurt me
Fuelled by the pain

Lurching, wandering,
Perching, pondering
On a cold, wet, porcelain throne

Mixing, blending
Fixing, mending
Aimless, I push on, all alone.

We all know that life can thrive in the most inhospitable of places.
                                             Plants grow from volcanic soil.
                                             Bioluminescence crawls beneath
                                               immense pressure on the ocean floor.
                                             Microbes most likely thrive below the icy,
                                                        radioact­ive surface of Europa.
We all know that life—love—perseveres.  
                                         ­                                 It’s nothing new.

But we don’t talk about
                                            how ******* hard that actually is.  
That’s what the strengths perspective is for.  
What resilience gives name to.  

But what if I don't want to?  What if,
                                                                ­  for today,
                                                                ­                     I’d rather the **** not?  
Is that okay?                           Is that allowed?  
That today I'm the vinca vine dying on the ledge?  
Withered up and not drinking any more water.  

Today, I am every succulent that I’ve ever accidentally killed.  
Today, I am excess formaldehyde.  I am a brain floating in a bell jar,
                        undulating in an existence that is an ethical quagmire.
Today, I am in limbo.  Purgatory.  Stasis and static.  
Suspended upside down in a frozen wasteland, Dante style.  

Tomorrow, I will thaw.  
                                Rise from the soil fist first.

I’m in the dream again:                not the one I had while awake in
the catacombs of St. Callixtus in Rome.  Where the darkness was
so impenetrable that it began to echo.  To look like the mixture of colors
that burst when you rub your eyes too hard for too long.  Like the
neuron rupture before death.  To shape and morph and become liquid.
Where the darkness cobbled itself into a physical form.

Not the dream where                    I kept seeing
flits of my mother out of the corner of my eye.  Behind
                                                                ­                               every street corner.
                                                                ­                   Every turn.  Every tunnel.  
      Reflected in the casts of the bodies in Pompeii.
Mirrored in the waves of the Trevi Fountain.

I’m in the dream where          the soil churned from the bottom to the top.  
                               where          the hand outstretched from the grave.  
                               where          my grandfather clawed his way out and returned to my grandmother﹘sopping wet, covered in thick mud, socks torn, skin sallow and jaundiced, spitting out the wire the embalmers put in his mouth, melting makeup, and ravenously hungry.  And it’s been so
                                                                ­                   long since he was hungry.  

“He came back to me, Taylor,” my grandmother tells me. 
“He came back to me.”
                                        I don’t have the heart to tell her that he’s undead.  
                                        I’m physically unable to spit out those words.
And it’s a dream and it’s a dream and it’s a dream,                   but
it just fits so perfectly.  That he would come back to her.  
That death would not be a barrier.  I can’t explain it.                It just is.  
My grandmother is a shell without him.  
The body that’s missing the limb.  
The body that keeps score.

today felt like I was a zombie walking through a ghost town
..broken..dreary..numb..
interally and externally
i'm officially not okay anymore

[F#m, A, E, F#m, D, A, E, F#m]

Zombie Heart, why do you keep coming back?
Thought I killed you long ago.
Tried to hide from you undead love attack
Ran as far and fast as I could go.

Left you somewhere I hoped I would forget
Dug a heart-shaped grave and threw you in.
Buried you down so deep I haven't finished yet
An endless war I know I'll never win.

[A, E, F#m, F#m]

Do you think I like breaking you?
My hands are stained red.
Do us both a favor and
This time just stay dead.

The Facebook zombie
Distorts its face:
Contorted, convulsing
A spasmodic smile.

Ignoring internal scars
Emotional wretchedness
Faking with gusto
What the good life is.

The Facebook zombie
Hunkers not for brains
But drools for likes
And virtual applause.

Like dazzling neon lights
Its ego shines bright
"I am the best"
"I am number one"
Says the connoisseur
Of filters and fakes!

The Facebook zombie lumbers
Towards the next bite
The next hit
Mindlessly raising its
Bony hands
As the camera sways
Finding the perfect angle.

Talking sleep
Memories I wish to keep
Time knows the tears I weep
As I let my tea steep

Walking with head hung low
Eyes but a dim lit glow
Hidden heart, refuse to let it show
Ever afraid of letting go

Draperies sewn shut
Stolen into a hollow hut
**** the peacock that did strut
Replaced with what
But a weak mutt.

- Jay M
September 24th, 2020