Poem: The Waking Dead

Talking to myself is less lonely

or more, I suppose than silence

is a choking void, speaking like a robot

valium addict method acting a dopefeind

in a drama, directed by Arinofsky

on a sadness bender, under a shade

with sunglasses on, it’s from a Friedkin

script about the dead rising slowly

at first, and they’re weak so barely

any escape, and their disease is a curse

not contagious, so there will be no more

dead, the movie is ten minutes long.

Poem: The Waking Dead

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