This unchangeable grieving of never being heard, understood, or like others must be fate or perhaps it's my undoing.

I have no place to go; Nobody to call me back home. I may as well live alone.

Why must bad things happen to good people; how much longer does one need to suffer until they're satisfied with the unchangeable us?

To suddenly care for someone is inconvenient when they're already gone.

What could I achieve upon expressing my feelings when no one cares to listen?

The one who tries so hard to jump in, never gets to fit in.