your kind of a thiefe...You don't inspire me like the others beforeIt's somehow less, yet a thousand times moreI'm not writing of longing or secret desiresWhich is usually how these small poems transpireSee normally I'd write down the words I can't sayI'm usually scared that I'd scare them awayIt seems like its good, right? Not being sad anymoreBut please answer me this, dear, now what will I draw?You robbed me of poems of moonlight and starsYou stole from me paintings of hearts locked in jarsYou kidnapped my words and you made my paint blandBecause nothing compares to the touch of your hand