This Is a Poem

I suppose this is a poem or something

But my thoughts won't stay in one place

I try to organise and rationalise

And marginalise

But my words are an abstract mess

Like melted crayons forming some kind of

Weird cesspool of colours and shapes

Green algae and purple mermaids tails

Crayons smell like innocence to me

Simple joys of childhood

Maybe that's why I still colour with crayons

Nostalgic colours and smells

And waxy strokes of vibrance

On notebook paper with pale blue lines

It straightens out the tangles in my brain somehow

But what was I talking about?

Oh, right

Poetry

I have this thing called Synesthesia

I see colours when I hear sounds

When I hear the voice of my lover

His sound is red and gold

The royalty of the proud lion he is

My best friend sounds like

The blue of bluebirds

Chittering enthusiastically

Drawing me out of darkness

And into sunlight

And I suppose that is poetry in itself

It seems like such a beautiful blessing

Seeing such colours

But my brain gets cross-wired

Confused and bewildered

Like tiny, trapped birds

Continually beating their restless, broken wings

Against the bars of a cage that is my mind

Trying to get free of the confusion

And that tastes like copper fear

Anxiety tastes like pennies

Acrid, metallic, alien

That's the Synesthesia, too I suppose

Sunshine tastes how flowers smell

And white noise tastes like flour

That gets in your mouth when you're kneading dough

Annoying, intrusive, gross

Yet comforting and bland somehow

In a weird sort of way

I still don't know what I'm talking about

But this is a poem, I guess

I'm sorry if my mind confuses you

It confuses me, too