Of Love Unfelt

I desperately want to know of this love
And in my life love feel.
If only their affections were real
And there was truth in the love they spoke of!

At times I wonder if they comprehend
The sadness they inflict on my heart
By the way they've turned lying into an art;
My soul pleads for it to come to an end.

If only they had one glance to see
The way their actions deal me a terrible blow
And fill me with such a great sorrow,
Perhaps then they would no longer lie to me.

If I knew not one of them I'd be free, I say - free!
For my joy they ruthlessly steal away
And yet they are still bold enough to say
How they love me and care about me.

Yet I wonder if I could even survive on my own -
For even the false sentiments they have shoved
In my face, at times, make me feel like I am loved.
I contemplate this: Would it be better or worse to be alone?

"Happy"

The things that make me happy each have their own unique way of doing so.  Although I may say that two different things make me happy, they ways they make me feel are in no way alike.  There is the same general feeling of "happiness" as we call it, but the feeling differs so greatly for each that at times I wonder why we describe so many things simply as making us "happy." Why do we define so many feelings with on word and shove so many emotions into one category just because they are positive?  They are each different and if I had a word for the way each positive feeling made me feel, it would make me...happy.

Feel

              Sometimes I wonder if I am normal.  Though I know not what “normal” actually is.  But is my imagination normal and like everyone else’s?  Does everyone imagine as vividly as I or is my imagination somewhat accelerated beyond that which is “normal”?  When someone tells me of their pain, of their sadness, their sorrow, I feel it as my own.  I hurt for them as though it were myself that felt this way.  Other people’s sadness can affect me in a way I cannot describe.  Although I remain happy, there is a part of me that hurts deeply for the people in my life that are hurting.  I cannot explain the way it feels.  But maybe this is the way everyone feels and I need not try to explain.  I want to help people.  I want to be there people.  And so often I feel as though I don’t help at all.  There are times when I feel as though I only make things worse.  And yet even then I cannot seem to stop trying to help.  What makes me feel so strongly about people?  What causes this great emotion to arise within me about things that at times do not concern me at all?  I cannot help but imagine how people feel; for imagine why they feel that way; imagine what I would do if I felt that way.

I cry when I am sad.  That’s not terribly abnormal.  But I cry when other people are sad.  I’m not sure that that is quite as normal as the other.  But it’s the way I am.  I feel emotion strongly – concerning my own life and concerning others’ lives.  I feel my sadness; I feel their sadness.  I feel.  I feel so strongly.  And yet I would not change the way I feel.  Ever.  For although I do not actually know that I help sometimes, I want to be able to be there for people.  And if it is through an overactive imagination that I can do so, then so be it.