Newborn

I roast my soul,
Into a burning piece of coal,
Not minding the warnings that I've been told,
of glorious hallucinations of burning down boats
And,
The pain in in the morning of which increases sevenfold.

I look around everything's a blur,
of people laughing, and dodgy falling
moments which I feel deterred.

I don't feel a thing except for the
numbing and narrowing of my mind.
The vision lost, and the reason of a bruise I cannot find.

The accent I speak, no one understands.
Like a child learning to speak, with
a toy gun in his hand.
1, 2, 3, 4 shots, I'm gone.

Something I experienced on the 31st of December.