NOT ALL VAMPIRES SUCK BLOOD

Your gaze wanders through corridors of dead and living poets, devouring, slipping in like thieves at midnight—not for communion with the spirit’s insight, but to feast, to draw stolen breath and reshape it as your own, a mimicry born without debt to the muse, a hollow construct grasping for self acclaim, void of responsibility to its sources.  
 
Poetic Vampires, the charlatans of thought, these pale shadows drift through other minds, cloaked in filched passion and counterfeit phrases—a theater of echoes lacking the marrow of originality. They linger, barren of fresh vision, bereft of new spark, sifting through borrowed embers in the ruins of true craft.
 
We see you, those who would drain without bleeding, who leech the vital pulse from artists’ souls to cloak themselves, the impostors haunting society’s avenues. They tread the fragile line of verse, not to be nourished but to pillage the poet’s rare ideas, turning confession to forgery, siphoning spirit from ink-stained depths.
 
In this mimicry, they live no true life of their own, regurgitating the fragmented thoughts they have pilfered, unable to summon the muse, for she does not answer hollow hearts.
They masquerade as creators, yet stumble through the littered remnants of others' dreams, piecing together counterfeit echoes, festooned with colors leeched from the honest hues of art’s wounded essence.
 
Vampires, both sudden and insidious—these thought-sucking leeches, lurking beneath facades of inspiration.  Their craft is thievery wrapped in semblances of sincerity, their trespass a silent sin, each sentence stitched from another’s vision.  
 
Do you feel the pang of stolen voices echoing? Observe them, those who hunt in subtle darkness, creeping forward in insatiable hunger for the essence they cannot grasp. They roam, scavengers, as though their own souls were voids looking for thought and word that might bring meaning to a empty existence.
 
True poets bear their own shadows; they need no echoes from the depths of borrowed minds.  
 
But these psychic vampires prey upon the devoted, sensing the pulse of true dedication to the sacred art.  
 
They savor the minds of those attuned to poetry’s solemn calling, the blood-rich vessels of spirit, while they lurk, empty as dust, feeding on vitality not their own.