Poetry

Chill Days, 20 (325.)

This fucking guy
can lug three fully-loaded guns
across a radioactive wasteland,
with extra ammo to boot,
along with ten bottles of water,
and ten pounds of food,
as well as armor that goes over his clothes.
Then he picks up every piece of scrap he sees,
just to make sure he has enough material
to build shelter and defenses back at base.
If he spots a wild animal, he kills it,
and he uses each part of it,
for food or crafting –
that shit is heavy, too.
I can’t imagine
being this dude in the post-apocalypse,
but by the gods,
he’s who I’ve become.
Thanks, Fallout 4,
I’m having a great time
(don’t tell anyone, it’s probably weird
that I’m enjoying the wasteland.)

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