All are alone, but not all are lonely.
I live with love, but do not feel loved.
Maybe having been scorned,
We wrongly attribute scorn,
To those who bear us none.

All of us have a place,
This must be true,
But few ever find it
Because the world is so vast
And it's not clear where to start.

Yet the human spirit is thus:
We hold onto a shred of a chance
That we will find our way
And leave loneliness beside,
The pain but a memory.

© The Machiavel