Passion, the life that’s lived through a song,
That finding every emotion to take along,
 
To refine that emotion ‘tis the singer’s duty
As he submerges himself into a sea of beauty.
 
With beauty as his need and his only guide,
He sang a duet with his imaginary bride.
 
They found happiness where beauty dwelt,
A poetic thrill in everything they felt.
 
But for some who simulate the artist world,
An acting out of a secret plan unfurled,
 
They look like an artist without the ingredients,
The look of passion without a passionate sense.
 
With no beauty found, they make it up
From a life they live with their feelings shut.
 
What feelings they portray, they look the part,
As theatrics are substituted for the soul of art.
 
But the artist himself knows him throughout
As he goes through the motions without a doubt.
 
He looks the same, but looks are only a decoration,
A simulation of artistry and a forged application.
 
Some get away with it,
But the true artist remains true to himself.

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