It's not always grand seeing the world in the ways of an intellect.

You notice others who are belittled and can't help but wonder what it's like

To feel ignorance, curiosity, astonishment,

And the source of all of the optimism that springs in their step.

The world spins in many directions,

Beautiful eyes spark many perspectives,

And you look at a loved one and think,

"Wow, I wonder why they stayed this long

When no matter what, my thoughts are jumbled,

And although they make sense to me, they'll never make sense to you."

When you look into the clouds, you wonder what it's like to be weightless,

Unable to feel burden

While you float.

You wonder how special the creases of your palm

really feel to fingertips that brush across them:

the crevices, though they differentiate,

Speaking louder than words that surface.

You smile at the sunrise pouring in and feel its warmth,

But never actually cross the room to glance out the window,

And you think how comfy it would be,

If the distant warmth was always there.

Something inside stops you from expressing all of the observations you make

And how they are what sculpts your entire being.

Maybe it's because they're secretive to your heart

Or because a pen doesn't bring justice to the voices in your head.

It's not always grand seeing the world in the ways of an intellect

Because you're usually lonely

It seems.