I am a zombie.
Dead inside and out.
In a crowd of people. Pretending to be just like them in order to survive.
My decaying skin is covered in make up, colored contacts keep those around me unsuspecting, and I've learned to talk without grunts, not allowing myself to let who, or more so what I am, become noticed.
YOU ARE READING
In The Mind Of A Maker
PoetryOriginal, depressing, locked iPhone notes from yours truly.