Crudely Drawn Silhouettes

I'm silhouetted against
Your sheets of scribbles.
(When you write to me
You're only writing to yourself.
When you write of my soul
You're writing of fancies; of fickles).
Crudely drawn silhouettes are not complete poems.

Despite your acclaim; your pence,
Your wealth
Is nothing in compare
To the expense
Charged to the written hole
Where a heart once lay.
It can buy you nothing
Worth holding.
It cannot wash your dirty deeds away
Or fill voids that have no end.

Silhouettes are a Shadow's attempt
To paint pictures that they cannot,
And will never, understand.
You cannot convey meaning
In an empty statement.
You cannot claim possession of art
Or take credit for capturing
Something that you don't see.
Without possession of your heart
You're only painting portraits in the dark.
You are not painting me.