Who am I?

Who am I
to rest in the soft cradle of sorrow
amongst the truely hurt, sick, and suffering?
How can I,
Blessed by love and beauty
count myself worthy to grieve
for my non-existant loss?
What right have I
to partake of in the sweet release
of tears streaming from my eyes?
I am an imposter in their midst.
My pain is false.
I have no real wounds
That make me worthy of the healing balms
of sympathy and comfort.
Who am I but a pretentender of discontent?
I must end this charade
No longer be sad and perpetuate pain.
I will be the one teach myself
how to laugh again.