My dearest boy asked me
What's it like then?
Living with this thing
This thing you call synaesthesia
I reluctantly relented
And I told him
Where he hears augmented fifths
I see pastels in neon
Where he sees lightning flashes
I taste cloves in melon
When he takes acid
I chuckle
Suddenly aware that
People part with their paycheques
For the chance to experience
My existence
I trip for free
And I never come down
From this freakout
So you can ask me
What colour's my voice?
You can ask me
What flavour's my shirt?
Just don't ask me
To explain yet again
That no, I can't control it
And no, I can't switch it off
This is a full time gig
Living in the kaleidescopic spice market of synaesthesia
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