Who Knows How To Feel Poem by Rita Shay

My father always was idealist,
Spending his life seeing things not as they are
But as they should be.
Some call it genius, lifting our society beyond its shabby state,
Instead making it something beautiful, something hopeful.
And idealists our society must be, to show up to life every day,
A life full of potential, unavoidable pain that singes the soul.
This morning after a heated argument with the man mentioned above,
I was dropped off to school.
Running to the girls room, trembling with rage and dripping with hurt,
I flung wide the door and cried until I could cry no more.
I looked in the mirror, eyes burning red and still unsaid words trembling on my lips. Turning the water on high, I washed out the red and brushed my hair back. Put on that naive smile I never lack, and politely opened the door.
The first friend I saw I hugged and said hello asking about their weekend and cracking a joke. And they hugged and they laughed and complained about their history or science exam. And I walked, in a way no one could ever guess that I was nothing more than pieces broken apart, crunching and breaking with every step taken.
Dozens of faces slipped in and out of view, passing by for a second,
Maybe one more. And I glanced at each one, wondering and searching for a face like mine. Wondering who else all perfectly fine was left too peices on the inside. How many times had anyone else in these halls stopped themselves from feeling.
Forcing themselves not to feel this hurt, this rage, even this burning love.
(this needs some editing, not even done yet, I apoligize for all of my poems sounding pretty self pity-ish, I'm not really as self absorbed as I seem)
Or I'm thinking of editing it into:

Hold high your heavy heart
Every single day, when we pass by familiar faces
We always stop and always ask, “ hi, how are you”
And the response is as always, “ good, how are you? ”
Somehow someway we have learned to
Bandage our wounds and swallow the pain.
Crumble up feeling of the hurt, the hate, the love and more pain.
Words tickling our lips are shoved back down into throats
And the woe is hidden good and safe, squashed down and locked into aching hearts.
Yes there is joy and reason to live, but so much pain we cannot avoid.
The proudest most beautiful gems of people,
Can walk around, bits of breaking pieces smashing together and falling apart,
With every step.
And I’m a hypocrite I’ll admit.
For mocking the idealist because they cannot see the world as is.
Because when they ask how am I
I say “ I’m good, how are you? ”
Every single time.