Blurred Vision [REVISED]

I listen to Thomas Otten, blurred vision, can’t see the
miracles of life around me, wondering where he found
those melodies; my mind covered in lead, cut off from
the world by a glass wall, soul missing or dead - why,
like a criminal, do I hide these symptoms - though it’s

A crime to feel this bad in our great World. Feelings
and awareness have fled, thick chain tautens with the
daunting thoughts caging my head, discomfort denies
ideas through which escape was effected in the past - 
attack in my head hammering at the back of my skull

This litany of sad symptoms explains why I can’t tell
colleagues my feelings, too melodramatic for this little
office where they work industriously while I’m lurking
behind, scared to be seen failing and blind. Moving
pain to another location would help, with chocolate

so sweetly easing depression, allowing a radiance to
surface like swirling bubbles in a pool; a pace change
& throbbing in my head could be bearable, attempting
self-medication preferable to sitting here with nothing
but red-hot discomfort entertaining a feverish, itching

mind, complementing fuzzy images; it means rigorous
checking is too far-fetched an idea for making sure I’ve
made no mistakes - feeling much too tired to care how
grammar rules are observed - or broken - or not, in a
text composed from blurred vision…

5 November 2013