Me zombie. Name Orwell. Me born long time ago, die, then go into ground. One morning, terrible noise wake me. Like God fingernails on big chalkboard. (Me literary—want write poem book one day.) Me stand up in graveyard, see other zombies standing, too. Moon out, and air full of green fog. Music play like at carnival. Weird.

"What do now?" me ask.

Other zombies shrug. "Guess eat brains."

Me know you curious, but please no ask why eat brains. Taste good—what can say? Flavor like peanut buster parfait. Good for body, too. Everything growing zombie needs. Except zombies not grow. Me stretch truth to make story good. Me next Mark Twain.

So me and zombie friends go to town at night, eat brains. We not want hurt people. Give brains, and no one get hurt. Why make so hard? No run, no scream, no tear hair and claw at face. Give brains. You no use them anyway. What? Why we here? We not know. Give brains.

Sometimes miss mother. Sometimes miss body—having organs that not fall out when Orwell run. Miss TV box, too. Since dead, have no depth perception. See only two dimensions, like dog. Cruel. Cruel is life of zombie.

Me hope meet pretty zombie girl one day, so can raise zombie kids. Me know one zombie girl now, but zombie girl not like Orwell much. Zombie girl only make smiles at zombie with big muscles. Zombie girl is shallow tramp. Orwell say too much. Orwell not misogynist. Only little sad. Orwell sorry.

Must go now. Must water garden with tears (this how poem makers talk). Not forget, please—when see Orwell in house at night, will know what must do. Give brains.

Tags: anthropomorphism, scared