We each live our own truth,
Spun by minds different as can be.
History shapes our perceptions,
Neurons firing with altered chemistry.

Yet the emotions we all feel,
Are as kindred as can be.
Borne from the same condition,
Etched in the rubric of humanity.

The first time Joy of a child, 
Smelling a freshly bloomed rose.
Or the melancholy of an old man
Reminiscing his deceased love's ghost.

The fury of a woman, 
shown her body doesn't belong to her.
Or the courage of girl,
Breaking free from the male-bodied herd.
 
One's own experiences are alas finite,
To the ripples we make with our own years.
We can multiply life's meaning by infinity
Feeling the joys and sorrows of our peers.

But fishing in the sea of compassion,
Our net is only as wide as we allow
Ourselves to feel for ourselves
Can't provide when we live without.

Through the footage of our own choices
For which do we still self-punish?
Can we learn to accept our character,
Like a mother would have done?

Replay the emotions like an old record,
Listening for the high and low notes.
With the steadier ear of a conductor,
Offer the support you would've hoped.

Only when we accept ourselves
can we ameliorte our own misery,
Then we can begin to feel compassion
And understand suffering universally.