I hail from lands that might seem strange to you my dear
So I have many things to tell you
But I waste much time in trying to make the story short
and encoding it in the language you understand
Sometimes I get lost in poetic mazes of my own making

As for my bloodshot eyes
it’s just a “thing” that comes with writerly insomnia

But you see
the “thing” with writerly insomnia is life threatening:
I have been staring at blank pages for hours
pondering:
the ink I put, wont it only yield blotted pages?