Humbled Ghost

Dramatic versatilities pound upon my existence.
Shady particles remain; parts of me that lie in wait;
In wait to be unmasked by years of false life.

A ghostly manner I have become.
My presence is unknown;
Unknown by all who pass me by, by all who live and die.

Dramatic lines, bold and soft, draw my reality.
Who is the artist that erased them all?
Was I too happy in the picture that you did draw?

Did you paint my smile too great?
Is it that you erased everything and left only I?
Or that you replaced me with another abstract of lines?

The picture is no longer pure.
Your versatilities leave traces of drama.
Lines of change now eclipse the lines that were once my reality.

When will I be redrawn, with passion, emotion, and great boldness?
I lie in the space between dream and reality knowing that my existence has been erased.
I find myself in sorrowful irony that you could remove all happiness,
And in doing so draw pain.
Where is your eraser now?

To accept existence as the art rather than the artist would be a very humbling task.
Do I really hold no pencil in my hand?
Do I have no influence on the lines of reality by which I live?

If so, then erase my mind, my heart, and my soul,
And leave me as a mere shell to be cracked by your dramatic versatilities!