Why?

Why as I lay here I feel stress?
Why as I walk through the halls I feel lonely?
Why as I sit here at my desk I feel the urge to cry?
Why as I look at myself I make a list of things to change?
Why as I stay quit people expect me to be the opposite?
Why is my question for a lot of things.
I sit alone in between a conversation as where I do not exist.
But that's ok, I have my tears to occupy me.

This poem is about: 
Me

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