Blind Beauty

Have you ever listened to the wind?

Sat in the dark on the dewy grass and just listened?

You can hear the whistle of a distant kettle as a woman makes a cup of tea.

You can hear the cry of a child for “just five more minutes”.

You can hear the laugh of the boys riding their bikes by the light of the moon.

You can hear the pages of a book turn as a young girl reads by flashlight under her covers.

You can hear the lights flick off as the man next door crawls into his bed.

If you close your eyes you can hear the wind blow through the trees and dance over the grass

Until it eventually kisses your face in that gentle, familiar way.

And although your eyes are closed,

The world has never looked more beautiful.

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I write

I write for the average person
I write for the people I connect with
I write for the lost souls of everyday life
I write for the people who have nothing to show for their age
Except for scars
Broken hearts and grey hairs
The people that have worked hard for every pay check in their lives
Who scrounge up change from under the driver side seat if their car
Just to buy a pack of cigarettes
The people who go out on Saturday night because Friday was pay day and that’s all they can afford.

I write this because right now I don’t have enough money to keep smoking like I want to
To start driving the car I want to
To pay back the money that I owe
Or really to do anything outside of sitting and being stuck in my own head
And I know a lot of you are like me
Too much thinking can be a very bad thing
I’m not saying it leads to bad thoughts
Like suicide or robbing a bank or stealing a car or anything like that
It’s bad because people like me start thinking too much and we can never stop
And if we never stop we can never sleep
If we never sleep then we can never stop this ongoing effect that we call our thoughts
But eventually we sleep

And when the sun raises in the morning all we want to do is cover our face with the blanket
And go back to playing poker on the moon with all of our heroes
But instead of this dream we have to wake up
Nine to five
Nine to five
Everyday for five days a week
Fifty two weeks a year
For at least sixty five years out of our lives
Back to the grind

I write this for the hopeless romantics
For the young generations that can barely understand my words
I write this
Sitting alone in my bedroom waiting for the day my voice is heard
I write this
And I’ll keep on writing ’till my hands decide that they don’t want to hold a pen anymore