Sculptures Made by Shitty Artists

I don't understand
why I feel the way I do,
the way I'm a hypocrite, and
how I just can't get other people.

When she cries, I'm not there
When I pat her hair, I'm beyond elsewhere.
Why is she feeling?

I don't understand.
why she feels the way she does,
the way I'm enraged by her feelings, and
how she just won't stop crying.

She televises tears
Says clearly, her fears
and I don't understand how her gears
turn about in her brain.

But I never ask,
and I'm sure she wouldn't explain.

When I cry, she's not there.
When I pat her hair, she's beyond elsewhere.
Is there a point to even dare
to comprehend the feelings behind another's stare?

I suppose, there's not,
People are sculptures.
Carving themselves to make themselves
properly look-at-able.
And not thinking,
maybe their faux-pain is harsh on the eyes.
This poem's pointless.
It fixes not,
a single destructive, angry feeling.
I'm feeling.