The room turns cold on my entry <br />Chilled by the endless winter in my heart <br />That came one day when I was younger <br />And never began to thaw <br />Now the icicles of loneliness reach <br />They hang above this crooked form <br />This bent back scribbling at it's desk <br />Well I've tried to fake some warmth <br />I've stood outside and screamed at the sky <br />But this emotionless, empty heart <br />Will never melt, or heal, or bloom again <br />Now all of the love I've acted out <br />Just inverts into hate and boomerangs <br />And I can't stand or leave this chair now <br />I refill my pen and pour more wine <br />I recline under the weight of sadness <br />That I could never be blessed <br />With love, or loyalty, or warmth <br />All I do is write about my missing pieces <br />So unsure if, or when, I'll ever find them <br />Maybe I am not deserving of saviour <br />But I'm still vain enough to hope...<br /><br />B.. Alexander<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-actor-writes-from-his-dressing-room/
