I am with “slow”

[vagabond]

 
 
I suffer from a strange disease;
I cannot ink down words.
It's not that I'm illiterate,
the reason's more absurd.
 
My words behave inexplicably                    act   instead of   behave  
they don't stick to their page.
As soon as they are written down,
they flap away like birds.
 
I am mortified of my condition.                  I´m   instead of   I am
But I hide it well:
When out, I am forever knitting,
I'm never free to write.
 
I haven't lost all hope just yet,
there has to be a cure.
Every morning, without fail,                     
I try and write some more.
 
Today, as I picked up my pen,
I felt blue and gloomy.                a little gloomy     instead of    blue and gloomy
Maybe it has been long enough,
and now it's time I ceased.             I would try to find some phrase for slowing down, braking or decelerating instead of ceased.. would prepare the appearance of “slow”                       
 
But my lament was premature!                 my lament, though, was premature
I wrote a word that stuck!
Well, actually, it moved glacially.          omitt “it”
The word I wrote was “slow”.             i´d write “I had scribbeled SLOW”
 
It made its way painstakingly,
off the page, the desk, to the floor.           “from page to desk to floor”?
It slunk and slithered across the room,      through   instead   of across?
and oozed out of the door.
 
I quickly rushed out after it,
in hopes that if I followed it,            omitt “it”
I might finally get to see                     “I finally might get to see”
where all my other words go!        “where all its brethren went”
 
I followed on till sunset,               “ I followed ´til the sun had set”
my feet were now quite sore.
This is when I noticed,               “looking down my eyes met with” (not sure though if that sounds natural)
some strange and purple snow.
 
Surprised, I looked around,
or, was it the world that spun?
When my eyes were fixed on “slow”,
my world had packed and run!
 
Perplexed, bemused and clueless,
I didn't know what to do.
And so I am still walking,
still blindly following “slow”.

I added a few suggestions next to some lines mainly for rhythm.

the poem contains a nice thought, the word slow makes the narrator focus on a simple thing (following a word), thereby slows him down (feet sore) and makes him stop and look at the world in a slightly different way (purple snow in the sunset, no purpose, just beautiful). 
up to that point I find it´s a very nice story and metaphor.. the last two stanzas however in my view abandon this positive aspect and make the narrator even blind again. but it´s a good point ending it like that, feels familiar and makes the reader think about the why´s .

alternatively I would somehow like it if the narrator realizes his amazement at the purple snow and find his other lost words in more details.. but that´s probably a different story.