I am blind

And this is the day that I write. When the curtains are drawn from the cloud enveloped stars, where the sadness kicks in, where the motionlessness hovers over my mind just like one of those clear umbrellas that surround your head, but leave your feet to the rain. Then your feet soak up the water on the ground because that’s the only way you can see. This is not inspiration; it is the feeling of a poet. Seeing by the feelings, blinded by the sensations all within a distracted force. This is writing; and it is not my air, it is not my passion, it is just what is simply done. And I cannot help what is simply done.