Chatterbox

Words run from my mouth, Like a constant river Or a leak. They run on like sentences without punctuation to guide you. They have no meaning. It does not cease. Sounds dribble from my mouth. Like a constant murmur. It does not make sense to those who try to find sense from it. A sweet symphony of sounds that sputter so softly. To another, Solely silence. Devoid of meaning, movement, mechanics. I'm the loudest one in the room. So meek, so modest, but yet so bright. But only can you hear, Time escaping. There's a constant narrative going on in my head. Can you hear it? And I don't know whether or not It's a sign of intelligence Or

of

me

slowly losing it. I haven't decided just yet.