its not the ghost of you,
its more like your zombie. because you eat at my flesh and leave me infected.
And its only in my imagination, so no one else can see it, i just wanted to make that distinction.

My skin is green,
I’m gross,
My teeth are falling out,
Even my limbs are breaking!
My skin is green,
I don’t know why,
My clothes are ripping,
My hair is gone,
My makeup is smeared,
My skin is green,
I have a date tonight,
And I am gross,
My nails are chipped,
My skin is green,
The doorbell rings,
I shuffle over,
My date is here,
His skin is green.

Still can’t sleep.
Like the walking dread.
Schedule I keep
Bemoaning the bed.

i’m a zombie,
only half alive.

i’m a ghost,
i don’t even know
what i look like.

i’m out of touch with myself
and everybody else.

i haven’t heard my voice in weeks,
i’ve forgotten how to speak.

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

Flits of crepuscular longing across the simoom in the night. For with samiel at the helm, all hell will take us for sloth. Firstly, a schism overtakes the wind, backsliding the doorstep of Lucifer’s kin. Keep an eye on the door’s of ewes. The child angered by sky will surely lust for the hedonists imbue. Then the rattle shakes, pelting trunks of lye, chafing the goons of the dawn and choking from the ***** in our young. Aristotle bakes yore, and relief takes the pen, until the quietness of the impala becomes transfixed by our brethren. Then sores take the skin by trial. Eagerly rushing towards the venomous trails, and only then does the bandit bemoan the pain. Only then will the hungered and hungry peel back their fingers for fare, there where the flocks lay in wait and in pairs. Here where the melancholy of revenge, fills our quivers with children’s tears. Only then do we make haste for the shade, otherwise the sun will cook our hides to the colors of the day, then we will lay quiet too. Maybe then we’ll be overtaken by the Xombie Moon.