Blind hearts.

Blind hearts.

The blind man
Across the street
Sees more
Than the men around him
Who won’t lend him a hand.
He feels objects
With his fingers,
His ears,
And his anticipation;
And wonders more often
About how beautiful
This life is.
He knows no difference
Between red and blue
And yet tells his daughter
That she looks beautiful
In that black dress of hers.
He thanks you
For every little thing
Because he knows
Gratitude
More than you do.
He doubts himself
More times than not;
But he knows how to
Trust his gut.
He is blind,
And he is across the street.
A street you’d only cross,
If you were blind too.


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A new shade.

Is it just me who’s blind,
Or did the world go blind too?
I don’t know where,
or how to look for the answer,
without my eyes.

The wind can speak,
And the leaves can gossip.
The sun can giggle,
And the clouds can cry.
How has this remained
a secret for so long?
Every breath I take
Now has a papery taste,
Dry and evident.
Every word I speak,
Now sounds like an echo,
That fills the room
With its existence.
Every giggle that I hear,
Tickles my ear,
And makes me feel the joy
That it is made of.
How have I never been
So alive before?
I’ve tripped on the stairs,
That I had jumped over
A thousand times before,
Did it move?
The walls feel a bit too close,
And colors a bit too far.
Darkness has a strange color.
It reminds me of the night,
But also the day.
But mostly, it reminds me of the sky
Infinite.
Darkness is a void,
The other senses can only try to fill.
How is it that we’ve never
seen this shade before?

Is it just me who’s blind,
Or did the world go blind too?
I don’t know where,
or how to look for the answer,
without my eyes.


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Related post : Half.

Friends, if you like reading my work, do share it with your friends (on whatever social media you deem appropriate). It would be amazing to have more people reading my compositions. Please help my infinity grow bigger ∞

Blind hearts.

The blind man
Across the street
Sees more
Than the men around him
Who won’t lend him a hand.
He feels objects
With his fingers,
His ears,
And his anticipation;
And wonders more often
About how beautiful
This life is.
He knows no difference
Between red and blue
And yet tells his daughter
That she looks beautiful
In that black dress of hers.
He thanks you
For every little thing
Because he knows
Gratitude
More than you do.
He doubts himself
More times than not;
But he knows how to
Trust his gut.
He is blind,
And he is across the street.
A street you’d only cross,
If you were blind too.


Previous post : The Liebster Award.
Related post : Painting.

Friends, if you like reading my work, do share it with your friends (on whatever social media you deem appropriate). It would be amazing to have more people reading my compositions. Please help my infinity grow bigger ∞