Hysterical Blindness

What is that I can’t see, though my eyes seem bright to me?

What is it that is blinding me, though I think I can clearly see?

It’s not in the eyes that has my view obscured

It’s not sunlight or haze, from the outside that is blurred


Perhaps it is something from inside of me

A mind alteration that makes it so hard to see.

For that is something that is clear to the eye

A weakness that begins every sentence with “I”


It’s a hysterical blindness that is passed on to your view

It comes from too many people, yelling with you

They tell you what is true, and you struggle to agree

And with all that work done, you succumb eventually


You bend to the crowd that you gather around

And makes all your thoughts truly unsound

And even if the eyes may trick you some ways

The mental blindness increases with all passing days


You want to believe, to succeed with a crowd

Because it makes your group, not correct, but surely loud

And once together you are all of the same front

That takes any outside message, and renders it blunt


But it doesn’t stop there, when some leakage can be heard

When it is still possible, to hear a faint, discouraging word

It builds and increases without an end

Until your message can no longer still bend


When all that you say is repetitious and wrong

But impossible to stop, the ending, of a cruel song

Cruel because no facts can unravel it’s lies

And sight has been blinded, and undoubtedly dies


Even when there’s a knock at your head

That confronts you with the untruths you have said

When it numbs you to think that you may be mislead

But to continue the song is more important instead


And the thump is silenced by the will of the mind

And the eyes, working physically, are still quite blind

And you whimper with the sting of the invading salt

From the tears of recognition, that you’ve failed to halt.


In the back of your mind, you may yet see the truth

But it calms over time, like the nerve dead tooth

But you have all those others, still  in your group

Until at last, your feast is only, rancid soup.


Barbara Blackcinder


About Barbara Blackcinder

I am a poet/writer with a need for words. There are so many out there that I haven't used yet. They define all reality and mine when you read those from me.
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2 Responses to Hysterical Blindness

  1. Barbara,

    This is a SONG—find its Music

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