Cold, like ice.
This writer's voice of yours
Has chipped away, piece by piece,
The heart that was inside you.
I had always thought writers,
Poets, musicians, artists -
They were supposed to be emotional,
In tune with the harmonies and souls
Around which they live and breathe.
But your writing, as alive and wonderful
As it may be has stolen away
The breath inside of you, not me.
The shell that fills your desk,
The one that's on the cover of reviews and
Online sites, is not the you I once knew.
It's not the you I dreamed of.
I can't say fame has taken you away.
That I would understand, but THIS?
To be kidnapped by the power of your words
To be lost among an ocean of sentiment-
Sentiment that I don't even know
You feel. Do you feel the you
Within the words you spew?
Because I can't, and it all,
It all makes me wonder about
How something so lovely, can be so wrong.
And as artists all we search for is beauty,
But when beauty steals from beauty
All I can think is that I
Need a coat, because when I'm around
You and your words there is
No warmth any more. There is only ice.
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