Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
J Christmas Dec 2011
Remember all the days you never lived.          ...Ahh But what you wouldn't give...
                         Tip the scales to disrepair and know what it is to be the
                                                                ­  living dead.
    
    Who else amongst us hath seen them walk again?

     Lifeless, infected.       Soulless.        Only bones within.
  Sustenance injected.                   Eyes dark as pitchblende.
    Heart  Neglected.                  Loosing rhythm as it distends.
      Feel protected?                  On your doorstep it doth impend.
And furthermore my friends, more than just a few of us,
   are as ****** as them.          You see, life seeks out solutions
                                       to conundrums of survival,         problems,          strife.
                                       Watch it steal away the will to stay and any real meaning to life.
                                        Death, the payment for travel inside this nexus of senses and sexes
                                        seems painful and excessive or made brief by all the excesses,
                                         is non-refundable no matter how you choose to live
                                         for even the ungrateful agree it was a small price to give
  
Let the dead share with you your secrets."There is but plenty to fear" And "The store is always open, so ya'll come back now you hear?"
*Copyright John D. Christmas @2011
Tiger Striped Jun 2021
I won’t forget to
mention how I
hate your asymmetrical gait; it
offsets my lucent cynicism
and offers me seasoned lucidity
which I already told you I don’t want.
I’ll continue to make
my disjointed offhanded comments,
thank you,
much to the vexation
of my sharply shrinking social circles.
Advice has always been icing on
cake which I
scrape off with a knife and
use for shape-making on
the edge of my paper plate
as the other party goers
advise me not to play with my food, it’s
childish.
And rude.
And anyways, who doesn’t
like icing?

— The End —