Graffiti

 

the brooding

malcontent

with paper cut

heart

stares at a wall

of graffiti

and thinks

I could do that

so he picks up

a spray can

unleashes

his feelings

in dribbling

white letters

fifteen feet high

his blood

becomes molten

his rage is

a torrent

of years

without voice

a scream

to be heard

his hands

shake like

an octogenarian

spinster

as he switches

to red

and to blue

and to black

yes black

like his eyes

without fear

just a hole

that is depthless

and as he

stands back

to admire

the mess of

his art

on the wall

someone says

“it’s good mate”

but if you

want absolution

from what you

are running from

if you want

voice

to what

you are feeling

if you want

more than

words on a wall

that say

‘LISTEN TO ME!’

if you want clean hands

and splatter free

jeans

if you want

the use

of more colours

than you can

imagine

if you want

if you want

if you want

freedom

then put down

your paint

and pick up your pen

 

for you have the soul

of a poet……