9 to 5

Time to awaken from the daily grind, and live our lives with a little more life.

Zombies sleeping, weeping, aching
the darkness closing, and suffocating.
Reeking of their endless peeling and rotting;
revealing their souls compiled of nothing.

9 to 5, wake and rise, there's no time
to stop think, "maybe the zombie is mine".
When you open your eyes, you should open your mind,
because every day is life's poetic rhyme.

Not the cold water splashing across sleepy crags
left by lying in your pillow's lap,
or skyscrapers framed in a weight of fog,
but living what you've got, not trudging through the bog.

Dreary, weary, bleary are my milky eyes,
air rushes in, escapes my mouth and sighs.
We just wander and wonder about this grind;
sneering, yet cowering, wallowing, we are self-blind.

Zombies sleeping, weeping, aching,
the darkness closing, and suffocating.
Dead I am, my spirit thirsts and pants,
revealing no being, only an empty trance.

Author's Note

Hmm...what do you think? What did you feel?

I am not a particularly dark person, but when I wrote this...I was quite preoccuppied, quite...the prisoner of my own darkness. Still am, at times, as we all are...but this piece expresses not only a shade of that darkness, but also my realization that I was allowing myself to be held captive as a 'zombie'.