I'm told that feeling and love are innate,
So why can't I communicate?
I'm despairing and longing for human connection,
But I'm met with indifference or even rejection.

Internally I harbour thoughts of kindness,
But they wither in the wake of external blindness,
I'm obsessed with truth and authenticity,
And this comes at the detriment of anyone knowing me.

An extreme fear of misunderstanding remains,
Despite me knowing that this is my ball and chain,
A depleting hope lingers on in my dreams,
So fragile and weak, a mere ember it seems.

This morning I crossed the street.
Unthinking, I stepped off the sidewalk while the light was still red.
I was brought to my senses when I heard the screech of a car two feet away from me.
The driver yelled, “are you crazy?!”
He is right, I know. But I wonder,
Does the driver realize that for the next few hours I will be walking around with a lump in my throat, with tears just behind my eyes?
It is an immaturity, I know. But sometimes, hours later, I will ask myself, “why am I sad?”
And I will think back and remember the driver’s face, and how wrong I was.
Sometimes it’s someone I love.
They will say something with the best intentions, but I will cry when I get home, because I love them, and I value their opinion.
I wonder, is everyone as sensitive as I am?
Are we billions of vulnerable, hurt people, forced to pretend that nothing affects us?
I don’t know, but I’ll see y’all soon. The lump in my throat is getting thicker, and I’m going to the bathroom.

Paper Doll
Your so fragile
Don’t be so Delicate

Maybe we should have made
You out of Cardboard

Paper Doll
Toughen Up

Why didn’t we make
You out of Leather

Be less sensitive
To the insensitive

You should have been cut
From a different cloth

Paper Doll
You shouldn’t be a
Paper Doll after all

Empathy
Very different from sympathy,
People don't always get it
Or they wish they had it,
that's what connects you and me.

It could be from the breaking of a bone
the way her tears flow
Maybe,
the sadness in a movie
the trip to the doctor
or a story about your friend who had lost his father.

Either way,
the world wouldn't be the way it is without you and me
we are never in drought
we are still growing
Along with the roses and the trees.

pain is with him
they never drifted apart
not even once
the sun knows the truth
and so does the moon
yet everyone knows not
because every time he bleeds
all he bleeds is ink