Congestion

My head is congested and I cannot see straight. Because I cannot see straight I cannot walk straight. And because I cannot walk straight I tumble over my feet and end up laying in a position resembling a turtle, with my stomach facing downward, on the floor. My ears cannot hear correctly, for loudness does not resemble what it should - nothing is loud and the volume must be amplified in order for me to hear every sound correctly. Rotting scents are abundant in my nostrils, inhaled enough to the point that I am either used to the scent or consumed by such disgust that I might bring up food that was consumed hours ago. I am in a world that is spinning uncontrollably, and I must admit that the feel is nice when in a slumber. But the fact is that as I am writing this I am not in a slumber and I truly am not even aware of what I am writing. All that is written is words. Words that I am putting together to sound nice or give off a certain tone or feeling. Just words. But don't all the greatest poets have just words and assemble them in a fashion that suits their ideas?