A whirl of feeling pours from my pencil
as I write of my unrequited love.
I think of struggle, I feel it. I know
what it is. And not just of love, of hurt.
Of someone's pain that you just cannot stop.
Of when their own body turns against them.
Of when there's no way for you to help her.
I know how it feels, the disappointment.
Of when you don't get the grade you wanted.
Of when you don't get that part in that play.
Of when you have to let go, but you can't.
I know what it gives you, a sense of fear.
Of when you don't know if they'll yell at you.
Of when you know you lost that second chance.

A splatter of emotion dots the page
as I write about what they really see.
I think of happy, I feel it. I know
what it is. And not just of laughter,
 of confidence.
Of joking with people you've met just once.
Of making them smile, of being funny.
Of being loved for who you really are.
I know how it feels, the fix, high, of joy.
Of when you're proud of that essay you wrote.
Of when you get accepted to that school.
Of when someone notices you, for you.
I know what it give you, a sense of life.
Of when that teacher says he's proud of you.
Of when that person says "You're my Best Friend."

You were the one who thought you weren't happy.
She was the one who saw your need to be.