These words flow from my pen
As tears should from my eyes.
But I find my cheeks dry
For I knew this was coming.

It was going too well
For it to end the way I wanted.
All it is really
Is just history repeated.

I cannot make tears surface,
Even if I try,
That’s the good thing about pessimists:
Your hopes never get too high.

Those words should hurt
More than they do.
But I’m used to that pain,
So I’m not affected like I should be.

Does this make me an alien?
Untouched by an obvious emotion?
I should be sad and hurt,
But no tears come
And my cheeks stay dry.