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.