All I Ever Do Is Feel

All I ever do is feel,
always tasting and experiencing,
and listening and expressing.

Obnoxiously perceptive,
always looking around,
and treating unexpected conversations,
like a gunshot wound,
with a faucet stream of blood,
that will never coagulate. 

The blood feels freezing,
just as I am becoming cold,
from feeling too much,
and while I used to bawl,
at the littlest things,
I am now the only person,
with dry eyes at a funeral;
dry eyes that watch,
the wet and dripping ones,
and feels emptiness,
instead of sadness. 

I am ice queen by day,
and mourner by night,
and I am becoming colder,
with the humor and laughs,
that I spit out like phlegm,
because my body is warm,
and rejecting this new coldness,
and now,
all I ever do is feel.