Sunday Morning Comedown

I feel the strong dull thud of my heart’s bell clanging repeatedly against my iron chest.

Reverberation after another, I lose more of myself each time.

Feeling lost in my own skin, wandering aimlessly in my own foreign mind.

I open my mouth to speak but my tongue has lost its identity.

I dip now into a shallow pool of personality, borrowed temporarily for the use of my own, from those around me.

I dig and find a suitable tone, i speak at last.

I can trace the tone back to the source and my eyes tell the story of someone else.

Lost, bouncing black circles, moving rapidly around, viewing life’s painting with a new intensity, a naïve genius.

To be naïve is golden, to be a child is supreme, to be a bitch is a shame.

I am lost and found in an instance.

My childlike thoughts circle over each other, the parallels no longer perfect, now running closer and closer to each other, their vibrance shared selflessly.