Empty seats

An apathetic audience,
How can I judge my work,
You are a mirror of them,

Inscribed, my words are fenced,
As Emo, my thought does lurk.
Is it coal or a polished up gem.

The former gives warmth,
The latter shows beauty,
Hopefully I am somewhere between,

To you, does my word haunts?
Or is it just purity?
I want to know, to you, what does it mean?