Blind to Strangers

So, this man came up to hand me a book, and I hear him walk away,
no rest for the wicked or the blind; I wish I could read today.
Make it bumpy and lumpy and full of hope, as I search this great area new,
where I have stumbled and fallen so many times, it's got nothing to do with you.

I can read, effortless the music that enters my ears,
but I have fought since day one, to be able to see my own tears.

This book, "what is it?" I ask the next man. I can tell by the footfalls he leaves,
He says it's a book about love amongst thieves.
As I test it's weight and feel the rough gloss, mixed with grease and smelling of use,
I test the waters and I test my fate, and I mix with it feelings of truth.

Content with the time he's invested in me, I hear him slide slowly away,
not hearing the footfalls what man feels this true, I know he has nothing to say.

I will be talked about for days on end, some grimace as i walk through the door,
holding a new prize, a book in my hand, and I pace along roads and on floors.
Lonely, I return to the place left for me, by a mother that loved me so true,
and it's lonely I sit, and it's lonely I stay, with this book I can't read to you.

I turn the pages, and smell them oft, and wait for a knock at the gate,
where someone will come, to read them to me, until then it must be too late,
until then I'll walk pacing
counting the steps
and listening with amplified ears,
the fears of this life envelope the best, and I wish I could see my own tears.