Zombies

I climb to the top, with a
Fistful of ecstasy, a
Shovel in the other hand, and I
Throw it to the wind, forgetting that
That mess will blow back in my face and
I'm found choking on all the mess you left me with.

I'm trying so hard, but
I'm one to want answers, and it
Kills me when the doors are all shut.
Like zombies, I guess.
I can fight 'em off for a while, but eventually
I'll run out of ammo, and they'll tear into me.

I spend my life like that,
My guts hanging down below my knees,
Disembowled,
Begging for someone to at least call an ambulance if not
Care a tiny bit.