Undead Corpses

Context (its needed): this is about someone suffering from severe paranoia, schizophrenia and Walking Corpse Syndrome. They think that they are dead and a 'walking corpse', as the name implies.
I'm a walking corpse,
Nor dead or alive,
Craving blood,
Lusting death.
My stare is blank,
My heart is empty,
But I'm smarter than you think.
My hands are cold,
My smile is chilling,
I'll kill the second I can.
I'm thought to be weak,
A walking, talking target,
A mere child,
The weakest link.
I don't fight back,
I don't even try,
I fear nothing you throw at me.
You don't hear,
I don't speak,
Of the destruction I can cause.
I fear none,
Dead or alive,
But there are more like me,
That walk as corpses.
I avoid their stares,
Their vicious claws,
I won't be able to fight back.
They hunt me down,
They crave my screams,
I don't rest until I'm 6 feet under.
My parents think I'm dying,
Doctors say I'm not right.
"Walking Corpse Syndrome."
Two of those words are mine.
Cheery films,
Happy endings.
Neither shall come to be.
"Paranoia.
Schizophrenia."
Those don't describe me.
I'm restrained.
I can't defend myself.
I'm panicking.
They're coming.
No one can save me.
No one saves the undead.
-SassyGhostQueen101
Category:Poems