To where do we receive,
The feelings that they say,
Come naturally to all,
With no exception.
For as the exception,
the fluke, an irregularity,
I see no signs in this world
of the color they speak of.
Is it all not just monochrome,
Am I just the odd one out?
Could I not be the one,
sole seer of what is true?
Am I the one who sees,
Or is my mind but a circle,
infinitely spinning with
blind men leading the blind?
Words are easy, you speak,
they listen, you answer and
back and forth, repeatedly,
share sounds with each other.
Emotions are ink blotches,
blackened in my mind,
with no hopes of translation,
or true communication.
Dartford Writings 