We are all just ghosts. Subtle tans painted on several blank canvases. Shades of grey, black, and white. Beautiful mysteries of the unseen. Stolen away by the darkness. We’re all nothing. Popular society with no interest in interaction. Extensive bedtime stories. Because where we are its always dark. But no one can ever seem to fall asleep. Insomniacs. With the tears of blood and the bitter cold veins. With dull skulls and beautiful minds. The most unextraordinary of folks. With the gorgeous smiles, unknown to the people. The legato whole notes, slurred through the melody. Boring.The fingertips of society. Not needed. But used more often then not. We are the foundation of art. The basic premise that all art is conception. An idea. We are the art. We are the idea. The thin petals of a dandelion. Blown on and wished upon, only to be forgotten. Like the butterfly that kisses your finger. We. The disappeared. We come around every once in a while. But only for a second. And these seconds are getting fewer and fewer. Because no one seems to notice. Just skin stretched across multiple bones. Like canvas stretched on wood. We are the camouflage. Painted into society with a rough brush. We appear just like everyone else. But that is only but skin deep. Underneath the flesh we are more than just shades of tan. We are the rainbow painted back and forth with elegant strokes. We are utterly similar on the outside. But underneath the similarities, blooms the unknown. The endless gardens with every imaginable flower. Scents of honesty. That’s who we are. We are the ones who were always there. But know one cared enough to know. We are the common folk with an uncommon being. We are the breathing. But we are the ghosts.