There's something missing in this painting.
Something wrong about this sketch.
Something I wish I could put my finger on,
But my finger keeps slipping.
Look into our eyes.
We are the future.
We entertain.
The future painters, singers, dancers, actors…
We are the missing.
I keep searching the dreaded photo.

It's like a new version of Where's Waldo?

It keeps searching back.

There's something missing in my life.
Poets are just artists without paint.
Dancers without legs.
Actors without bodies.
Singers without voices.
We are the missing.
Tell me you're not searching.
Tell me you're not afraid.
Afraid of the future.
Afraid of the past.
We are the words.
Each word lining every page.
We teach.
We create emotions.
We are the missing.
You missed me.