Who am I?

I feel.

I feel too much.

I feel nothing.

I can't control what I feel.

I wasted my childhood worrying about how people feel.

I wasted my preteen years wondering what people thought of me.

I wasted my teenage years letting words effect me.

On letting actions effect me.

Until I decided I would stop.

No one could make me feel again.

Unless I wanted it to.

So.

I wrote.

I wrote poems to everyone.

To people I hate.

To people I love.

My passion went into lines.

My feelings into stanzas.

Until I did not feel the pain the put upon me.

Consequently, the love they showed me.

I became numb to all outward emotion.

I asked myself, "Who am I?

Am I numb to all feeling?

Am I insensitive to the emotion?

What am I becoming?"

I stopped writing.

Still, I felt nothing.

It wasn't because of the poetry.

I could no longer feel.

So.

I wrote, not about the people I hated,

Not about the people I loved.

But about the goodness in them.

The happiness I could find from them.

I wrote until I allowed myself to feel.

The pain,

And consequently the love that came with it.

But it was worth it.